


By force of contrast

by Nonnymus



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (very brief mention), Alcoholics Anonymous, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Romance, Friendship, Hallucinations, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Enjolras, Panic Attacks, Piningjolras, References to Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, References to Drugs, References to Homophobia, Self-Harm, Slow Build, Withdrawal, alternating pov, set in England
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 60,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonnymus/pseuds/Nonnymus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'What supernova would pay any heed to a distant comet – all ice and dust – orbiting from afar?'</p><p>Grantaire has always admired Enjolras, and as infuriating as Enjolras finds Grantaire, he can't deny that something draws him to the man as well.</p><p>In which Enjolras and Grantaire are held in custody, there are a lot of fights, and everyone knows except Enjolras, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. R

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is the first fanfiction I have ever really posted, so go easy on me! This is also my first time writing these characters too, and although I've read the book, seen the 25th anniversary DVD and seen the 2012 film, I feel like I might have accidentally written them woefully OOC. Apologies if that's the case!
> 
> Any comments, criticisms or corrections would be gratefully received! I cannot tell you how much I'd appreciate it. 
> 
> I don't have any experience of being detained, alcohol withdrawals, drugs, legal proceedings, rallies, or indeed, a humongous amount of knowledge about workers' rights or life in London. 
> 
> Any views expressed by characters are not necessarily my own. All characters belong to Victor Hugo, of course.
> 
> Just to let you know, there is a little bit of violence and blood in this chapter, and some mentions of drugs and alcohol (but I guess when you're writing about Grantaire, there rarely isn't!) 
> 
> Thanks.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, a small white pill, pressed hotly into his palm by someone he recognised vaguely but couldn’t remember the name of. “It might make you forget, for a while,” they told him. And so he’d meekly accepted it. The oblivion he’d sunk into was interspersed with snatches of conversation and bursts of colour and blurred faces looking worriedly on, but he couldn’t feel anything but breathless confusion and numbness, which, of course, was the primary motive here. It was a blessed relief, really. 

\--

Courfeyrac, Cosette, Éponine and Jehan had all said that what Enjolras said had been “hurtful and untrue”, and yet, _it wasn’t really, was it?_ It wasn’t untrue at all. He _was_ a drunken lay-about. He didn’t contribute anything, and just cut others down with his own pessimism. He was a cynic because he couldn’t accept that despite having no good in himself, there might be other people who did. He wasn’t good for anything. He didn’t believe in anything except self-destruction - _“and you, and you,”_ he’d wanted to whisper. Instead, he’d said “Maybe you’re right, Apollo.” He’d knocked back the remains of his wine, and strolled from the room, trying desperately to appear unaffected. His eyes had prickled with hot tears and his friends’ gazes followed his movements with concern. When the door closed behind him, in one wave, he heard their voices raise: 

“There’s no need to say things like that, Enj –“ 

“You know how much he values your opinion, you shouldn’t –“ 

“Do you even think before you say something? You it know hurts him like-" 

“Enjolras, so help me if you don’t go and apologise-" 

Grantaire wasn’t going to wait for the usual passive-aggressive “I’m sorry, but you infuriate me sometimes and so I end up saying things I usually wouldn’t. I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings.” 

Thumbing a twenty pound note from his battered wallet, he hailed a cab. 

He hopped out somewhere in East London, far from his usual haunts. Maybe the others wouldn’t line up in his mind to spew their painful sympathies that way. It made it _harder_ , if anything, knowing they all knew about his unrequited feelings for Enjolras, his _goddamn hero worship_ that he couldn’t get over, or drown out, even with vodka and wine. It made him feel _weak._ They all knew why he attended meetings, really, and it wasn’t just to heckle. 

So when the man he’d been drunkenly hanging onto for an hour, and gambling away his last fifty with, suggested they went to a party with some friends he knew nearby, Grantaire was in no position to disagree. 

A blonde girl danced with him, and he tried desperately not to throw up on his shoes. That white pill was pressed into his hand, and clearly someone was taking pity on him, because he woke up fully dressed on the sofa, and as promised, had forgotten for a while. 

\-- 

Groggily, Grantaire resurfaced from his haze. His fingers itched and he stretched out desperately for some contact. _No, nothing – just another shitty, woozy, snatch of a dream._ He was overcome with a feeling of shame, as if his chaste dreams about his Apollo might besmirch him in some way. They weren’t even on speaking terms after last night, and yet Enjolras’ flashing eyes still haunted his drink-addled dreams. _He sickened himself._

Grantaire’s phone had 9 new messages. 

**‘Ponine (21:48) : would me breaking his nose make u feel better?**

Grantaire barked out a laugh, which racked his throat a little. His mouth tasted of last night’s cigarettes and stale alcohol. Back cracking uncomfortably as he sat up, and looked blurrily across the room at a couple sleeping with head resting on collarbone, blissful despite their smudged make-up, odour of cheap cocktails and days-old stubble. The phone screen seemed bright to his eyes, despite the clock proclaiming it just after eleven. 

**Cosette (21:53) : Please let us know that you’re okay. You don’t seem to be hanging around outside the Corinthe. Where have you gone?**

**(Dr) Joly (22:37) : Please be sensible tonight, R. I know you’re hurting, but please look after yourself.**

Grantaire resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Joly’s concern. He’d lived through worse, much worse. Though not much hurt him like Enjolras’ disdain. If you don’t care, nothing can hurt you, after all. Enjolras’ opinion was one of the few things he’d ever confess to caring about. 

**Courf (22:51) : Srsly man, jehan’s pacing around cos we cant find u. where r u?**

**‘Ponine (23:06) : should we send out a search party? dont get 2 hammered and dont drink all the wine in the flat if u’ve gone back there**

**Cosette (23:35): Please Grantaire, where are you? Are you okay?**

Grantaire felt the taste in his mouth turn sour with guilt. He’d kept his friends up worrying, and they didn’t deserve this. Most of them actually had classes and lectures to attend the next morning. Unlike him, they attended their lessons, not just mooching about in the art department when it suited them, covered in paint and cigarette ashes and seeing all the painful, glaring colours through drink-haze and bloodshot eyes. 

**Combeferre (23:48) : The others are really worried, R. Please tell us where you are. Even Enjolras seems concerned here.**

Grantaire snorted. Enjolras hadn’t shown concern in his life for anything except oppression and social equality and justice. Grantaire loved the anger in Enjolras’ eyes, and he lived for the times when that heated glare was turned on him, considering hate was the most passionate emotion he could instil in him. _It was enough,_ he told himself. 

**(Dr) Joly (23:56) : I hope you’re being safe. Careful of dirty needles too. And athlete’s foot. I’d quote drug and alcohol abuse figures at you, but I think I’ve made my point.**

**Apollo (00:38) : I hope you know I’m sorry. I did not think, and I did not mean to hurt you in any way. We will be at the Musain tomorrow. It would be good if you would be there.**

_Liar,_ he thought, but his chest still twinged, and he hated that he’d made Enjolras feel that he had to make insincere apologies late at night. It was like an automated voicemail “Sorry for whatever I’ve said to insult you, please leave your message after the tone.” It meant nothing, but Grantaire still scraped himself off the lumpy sofa, left a note of thanks and the money he thought he owed from the gambling, and let himself out of the unfamiliar flat. He despised himself: walked slowly, feet dragging, mind protesting. _How he hated himself for always coming when Enjolras called._

\-- 

Stumbling into the Cafe Musain, bloodshot and bleary, Grantaire saw his friends raise their collective head from the map and sheaths of paper Combeferre had spread across the table. 

Jehan tackled him with a hug. “R – you’re okay!” 

“Of course I’m okay - I’m always okay.” He mumbled, extracting himself from Jehan’s limbs. Enjolras looked at him searchingly, no hint of regret or worry, but none of anger or frustration either. Grantaire just blinked, sat down, and sunk confused under the deluge of his friends’ chastisements and relief.

“You could have been anywhere – you could have texted us!” 

“-just so happy to see that you’re okay, I mean you went stumbling off drunk and-" 

“-usually you let us know within an hour or so-" 

“You weren’t in your usual places so we didn’t know where to look next-” 

“Where did you actually go?” Joly asked, concernedly. 

Enjolras broke in: “What Grantaire does in his free time is irrelevant. Can we get back to planning this rally, please? Conditions like this in sweat shops have gone on long enough - anyone can see it’s immoral. The only winners are the greedy, grasping people exploiting the workers who’re merely trying to keep their families warm and fed...” 

Grantaire rolled his eyes, and ordered himself a cheap beer. 

\--

Several drinks later Grantaire fuzzed in and out of the conversation, fingers clasped around his tumbler of whatever-the-hell-that-was. He resurfaced to hear Enjolras pound his fist on the table, eyes bright, tossing back his head and lamenting the plight of working men... again. As if Enjolras had ever had a reason to conserve money, or had any idea what it was like to go without a meal due to lack of funds, or have to sleep on friends’ sofas because he’d fallen short of rent money. Grantaire was sure he must be fairly well-off and come from a good family. It was written all over him, in his clothes, the way he held himself, his countenance – Grantaire was sure he had not gone to a bottom of the heap comprehensive like him. And yet, here he was, fighting for workers’ rights. Grantaire might have found it admirable if he didn’t find it all it so pointless. His naivety was almost charming. 

“-big companies like Adidas refuse to commit to giving their workers a fair living wage, yet anyone can see the millions they rake in through sponsorship deals each year. I feel this rally will be a perfect way to highlight the unfair conditions of workers around the world – people are willing to buy products without thought if they don’t know where they’re from or how they’re made, and it’s time we said no! It’s time we educated the people on the injustices these workers face! It’s time to give them back their dignity!” 

“We get it, Apollo – save it for the rally, huh? Do you really think anyone will listen to you?” 

“I’m sorry? You don’t think people will be shocked by the conditions and pay that these workers-” 

“Sorry, but no. Probably not. People are inherently selfish creatures. If they are getting the goods they want at a price they are happy with, then they aren’t very well going to campaign for the workers to be paid more. All that they see happening is the prices of the goods going up.” 

“But the conditions are shameful and appalling – anyone can see-”

Grantaire barked a laugh, taking another swig from the glass in his hand. He tried not to grimace as it burned its way down. “No, Apollo. That’s the thing. They don’t see. People are morally self-centred. If it’s not involving them, they shut themselves away from it. Unless the people themselves are being affected by these conditions, they are highly unlikely to campaign to change them.” 

“Does it make you happier, believing the world is full of people as cynical and uncaring as you? There are good people everywhere, who see suffering and help clothe and feed and care for the people, rather than passing it off in the way you do, with a shrug and “ah, that’s life”. Do you not realise that if enough voices band together, they will be heard? Do you not think that if enough people stand together for a cause, changes can be made?” _Enjolras even managed to make being flustered look attractive. How?_

Grantaire bit his lip, and carried on; hoping the slight thickness in his words wasn’t obvious. “In all honesty? No. I do not think there will ever be an instance of such a number banding together for a cause unless it is affecting every person on this planet. People are selfish and sheltered and I believe they can get used to anything. Soon enough, they would forget their indignation and accept that nothing they can do will make a change. And I do care about some things, Apollo.” 

“Is that right, Grantaire?” Enjolras all but spat, like his name was poison on his lips, “And what’s that? Your next drink?” 

Grantaire hoped that Enjolras didn’t see the way Bossuet winced next to him in the beat of silence that followed. He sighed. “You may very well be right, Apollo,” Grantaire said, and ordered himself another of whatever was in his hand. It seemed strong, and didn’t taste as awful as those disappointed looks felt. Alcohol seemed very conducive in wiping away whole exchanges that Grantaire would rather forget, and _God knows this was one of those exchanges._

When Enjolras had finished off his spiel ten minutes later, Grantaire pushed him into a nearby booth to talk, handing him a bottle of beer, like a twisted sort of peace offering. Enjolras merely spluttered, scowling a little, which had caused Grantaire to grin in satisfaction. No one had figured out a way to effectively silence the Fearless Leader for more than five minutes at a time at meetings like this. 

Grantaire’s tongue felt a little leaden, but he tried to disguise the way he slurred around it. 

“So, Apollo –” 

“You know I don’t like it when you call me that.” Enjolras snapped back, fingers clenched around the beer bottle. He seemed to suddenly notice what he was gripping angrily, “I barely even drink, Grantaire,” he said resignedly, and shoved the bottle back across the table towards Grantaire. 

Grantaire put both hands over the bottle that Enjolras was still gripping, and leaned in to smile at him lopsidedly. Enjolras looked bemusedly at Grantaire’s hands over his, and deftly moved away from the sloppy grin. 

“You know I don’t like it when you call me an... intoxicated” he stumbled clumsily over the word, “mess, or, or, a... cynical lay-about, but you still do,” Grantaire pointed out, an air of drunken triumph in his voice. 

Enjolras merely sighed and tiredly scrubbed a hand over his face. “Is that what this is about?” he asked quietly. 

“Is this what what’s about?” Grantaire slurred confusedly. 

“I said I was sorry. You rile me up with your cynicism, and I know that’s no excuse, and so I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, but if you’ll excuse me...” Enjolras attempted to rise from the booth. 

“No, hold on, wait.” Grantaire reached out an arm to hold him back, but stopped short. He just drew his arm back towards himself again self-consciously, and just clasped his drink tighter in his hands - hopefully preventing any more, _goddammit,_ involuntary drunken movements. _Get a hold on yourself!_

“What is it?” Enjolras stared levelly at him. 

“I, just, no. Don’t worry, Apollo. You go back to saving the world.” 

Enjolras just looked back, _(and was that a flicker of worry in his eyes or just a flash of annoyance?)_ hesitated for one brief moment, and marched off towards where Courfeyrac and Combeferre were seated. There was still his handprint in condensation on the beer bottle. 

Cosette looked up from snuggling against Marius, trying to shoot a comforting look towards Grantaire’s lonely position in the booth. Éponine rolled her eyes and mimed shooting herself in the head. Grantaire just nodded back sadly and helped himself to the beer Enjolras had spurned. 

\-- 

Grantaire had been watching Enjolras forlornly from the sidelines for as long as he’d been coming to Les Amis’ meetings. Voice raised only to procure more alcohol or cut in with a snide comment, he sat, usually in silence, or else in drunken mocking, and watched the flames flash in his eyes. It wasn’t ever really enough, but he told himself it was plenty. _It was not like he’d ever get anything more anyway._

Stumbling back to the flat with Éponine, arms round each other either in tipsy laughter or else in comfort – Marius might have been more sickening than usual with Cosette that night, or Enjolras more heavy-handed when it came to Grantaire’s feelings – they tripped and staggered back to their dingy flat. Grantaire usually passed out on his bed, sometimes still fully-clothed, safe in the knowledge that at least then he was doing what was expected of him. He only ever went to the Corinthe to get himself into a comforting drink-induced stupor, after all. Grantaire hated to disappoint. 

\-- 

The workers’ rights rally was the morning of his most astounding hangover in a while, and Grantaire considered groaning an excuse for missing it down the phone at Jehan. He knew he’d then probably get a barrage of texts from Enjolras asking why he thought a couple hours more sleep was more important than the rights of the masses, and that wasn't not something he wanted to face that morning. Grantaire didn’t really want to draw any more attention to himself after last night, because he distinctly remembered Enjolras looking intensely at him, but couldn’t _quite_ remember what he actually said. It was probably something scathing and cynical. _It was his default setting, really._

Heaving on some clothes, quickly brushing his teeth and raking a hand through his hair, he stared into the mirror with something akin to resignation at the wild curls, bloodshot eyes and pallid skin. He looked rough, but not much more than usual. Grantaire gulped down a reviving cup of the strongest coffee he could get his hands on and grabbed his paints. No doubt the others wanted him to do some signs or something: _‘We are displeased with this’ ‘Down with the current state of affairs’ ‘Happiness and idealism for all”_ – that sort of thing. 

The others were already there when he got to the Musain. Most of them barely looked up, but Éponine shot him a smile with one brow arched, standing suspiciously close to Marius as the group huddled around the table. Jehan held up a hand in greeting, his long hair tied back, and with a paintbrush behind his ear. He had a smattering of blue paint across his nose, like some really exotic freckles. Enjolras was shuffling through his speech notes, calmly questioning Combeferre on certain aspects of the arguments. He looked at home there, in the same booth he’d sat with Grantaire in the evening previously – _ah, now it was coming back to him._

_“You go back to saving the world, Apollo.”_ Oh. 

Grantaire stared at Enjolras, trying to read if he was trying not to catch his eye or just hadn’t noticed him there at all. 

_The mighty Enjolras was busy saving the world, after all. ___

Courfeyrac coughed pointedly and Grantaire whirled around to face him. “What?” 

Courfeyrac just smirked. “Oh, nothing. Good to see you, Grantaire.” _Oh god, he had the worst friends._

“Wish I could say the same, Courf.” 

“You look like shit, R. Are you okay?” 

“Oh, you know how to charm a man!” Grantaire laughed. “I’m okay. Just feels like I went a little overboard with the booze last night.” 

“When don’t you?” Feuilly called, jokingly. 

Cosette peeled away from Marius’ side long enough to speak to Grantaire. “R, are you okay?” 

“Sure, why’s everyone worried about my health so much today?” 

“Your health? What’s wrong with your health? What are the symptoms? Is it malaria? It could be malaria!” Joly began, worriedly. Bossuet put a comforting hand on his arm, and smiled. Musichetta rolled her eyes from behind the bar, still managing to look effortlessly lovely in a frankly awful barista’s uniform. 

“No, it’s not malaria. Joly, I didn’t want to worry you but I am suffering from a very rare condition,” Grantaire began. He heard Joly’s nervous intake of breath. “It’s called... a hangover.” 

Jehan giggled, “You think you’d know how to spot one of those by now!” 

Courfeyrac draped an arm over Jehan’s shoulders. “You see them often enough!” He winked at Grantaire. 

He eyed Enjolras nervously, trying to gauge whether he could hear the evidence of Grantaire being irresponsible again, as if it wasn’t clearly written on his face. Sighing, Grantaire walked over the bar to try to mooch another coffee from Musichetta. He thought he managed to slip his hipflask out discreetly, but Joly and Cosette shot him identical looks of resignation and concern. _So what if it was before midday?_

It was then that Enjolras flipped his papers back into order and stood up. Grantaire’s throat felt dry, and he wasn’t sure it was because of the strong coffee he’d just drunk. He looked good – red t-shirt, fitted jeans, a dark grey jacket. His hair was in styled in all its usual curled glory, and he stood there, positively rigid in his barely concealed impatience. _Oh god, he was much too sober for this shit._

Excusing himself from the others, Grantaire, with mug in sweaty palm, slunk to find a booth with a good view. _Oh god, how he hated himself._

“Right, everyone,” Enjolras began. The group fell quiet, awaiting instructions. It was no secret that Enjolras was their unelected leader. Grantaire sometimes sniggered at what Enjolras’ reaction would be if he ever fully realised quite how undemocratic their own group was. Of course, the others had their own opinions and roles (Grantaire’s just being cynicism and painting signs) but there was no denying they sat up and listened when Enjolras spoke. For a man with such a little concept of tact when it came to Grantaire, he was charismatically passionate and charming when it came to his causes. “We’ll split into groups and take the minibuses,” he continued. “Combeferre, you take Marius, Cosette, Bosseut, Joly and Muischetta. Jehan, Courf, Bahorel, Feuilly, Grantaire and Éponine – you’re with me. Jehan, Grantaire, ‘Ponine, – if you can grab the signs and distribute them to the others when we get there then that would be excellent. Joly, don’t forget the first aid kit.” 

Grantaire snorted in disbelief. At the interruption, Enjolras shot him an irritated look before continuing. 

“Meeting place is as arranged. Everyone keep your phones on, just in case we get split up. It shouldn’t happen, but at least we can all remain in contact this way- remember, this is meant to be a peaceful protest. If possible, we’ll get there, say what needs to be said, rally the people,” Grantaire rolled his eyes at this, “and keep our noses clean. Everybody clear?” 

Everyone grumbled acquiescence. 

“Bahorel – you too?” Enjolras asked, eyeing him seriously. 

Bahorel nodded, pretending for a moment to be upset by the news, but quickly breaking into a sneaky grin when Enjolras turned away. 

“Excellent – let’s get going then,” he said, a rare smile lighting his features. Grantaire drained the dregs of his coffee, smiling behind the rim of the mug to disguise the swelling feeling in his chest. 

_I suppose the world’s not going to save itself._

\-- 

Grantaire found himself in the very position he didn’t want to be in. He was pushed up into the back of the minibus, multitudes of barely dry protest signs propped up around him. Éponine was giving ineffectual advice about combating his _feelings_ and it was only their close friendship that prevented him throwing the words “Like you’re combating your feelings about Marius then?” back in her face. Grantaire just gritted his teeth, the sobriety making him wanting to claw at his own skin. _Damn Enjolras and his pretty hair and lips and everything._

Grantaire wouldn’t be here if he didn’t care about something after all, even if that something was listening to Enjolras’ voice and watching his mouth shape powerful words and his hands move wildly as he gesticulated and ranted about whatever topic it was this time. Grantaire felt better knowing he was on hand to stop people beating Enjolras to a bloody pulp if things turned nasty, also. 

It had all gone smoothly at first. Les Amis piled out of the bus, blinking in the bright sun, pulling headphone buds out of their ears and generally messing around. Enjolras scowled as he recounted instructions and muttered the speech to himself. Grantaire only interrupted to give him the best sign he had painted. _He was nothing if not thoughtful._ Obviously giving Enjolras the best sign was an utterly _motive-free_ decision. Enjolras just nodded his thanks, scowl still clouding this stern features. _Well, it was nearly acknowledgement. It was good enough._

The protest had gathered a bit of a crowd, which Les Amis were pleased about. Grantaire didn’t feel the need to point out that there was a band scheduled in the park after Enjolras had finished his speech, and so the crowd was probably for that. _Not yet, anyway. Maybe when he was drunk._ In turn, however, the crowd drew the wary gaze of the policemen that were gathered, ready to take charge should the situation become unpleasant. 

Grantaire felt twitchily sober, painfully so, with the sun cleaving into his skull. He felt sticky and uncomfortable and out of place next to all his beautiful, vibrant, enthusiastic friends - they stood shouting, hearts and eyes on fire with belief, and Grantaire felt empty and washed-out in comparison. Enjolras’ preparation seemed to have paid off. He had the crowd chanting and cheering, and he looked like a prophet stood on that platform. He seemed to glow with a radiant fury, and Grantaire wasn’t sure he’d ever loved him more – unattainable, livid and breathtaking though he was. 

He was able to pinpoint the moment the atmosphere changed, the point in time when the mood shifted dangerously. Grantaire was suddenly painfully aware of every surge of the crowd, every cheer and every lurch of the seething mass. He was unexpectedly relieved about his sobriety. He inched closer to the platform, brandishing his sign, ready to defend himself _(and Enjolras)_ if needed. 

It was then that Grantaire saw the line of policeman tense, the sound of caught breath, and saw a man break from the fray, stumbling. His hands were clutched to his abdomen and an expression of panic written upon his face. Grantaire watched in horror as the man’s white t-shirt blossomed red, and saw the hilt of something protruding from his ribs. The man staggered to his knees, his muttered “please, help me” carrying across the swarm of people as if he had shouted it. Joly and Combeferre (medical students as they were) and a handful of others were moving towards the injured man before Grantaire could register what had happened, but the seething multitudes of people were backing away quickly from the scene, horror and fear and anger written on their faces. In the hurry to get away, people began to shove and push and force their way away from the scene, the distrust thick and sour on his tongue after their jubilant unity. 

Grantaire turned, and saw Enjolras blanch, still stood atop the podium, flag in his hand forgotten. He saw the crowd pushing, people being knocked over and the fire in his eyes was relit. “Everyone – keep calm. Stop fighting one another and try to help. We need to clear space for the ambulan-uhh!” Grantaire watched in shock as the extremely makeshift podium was forced aside by the swarming mass, who had moments ago been cheering at Enjolras’ every word. Hot anger filled him, and he dropped the sign, running closer to the scramble. He lost sight of the others, a flash of blonde that might have been Cosette whisked past, tear-stained and furious. 

Grantaire plunged into the fray, and saw, as he reached for Enjolras, a burly, floppy-haired man give him a hefty kick to the ribs, and again to the face. Mindless violence – no reason for it except that Enjolras was there, and that this man had him at his feet. 

A small irrational part of Grantaire’s brain knew that Enjolras would hate this worse for that. Fighting and getting hurt for a cause, maybe, he could deal with. If this man disagreed with him, or was fighting for something that Enjolras opposed, then at least it was something he believed in. This man kicked Enjolras almost idly, nudging him with the toe of his boot. Enjolras curled in on himself, and Grantaire saw red. 

Grabbing the back of his jacket, he hoisted Enjolras up roughly, and rounded on the man. The shock in Enjolras’ eyes faded a little when he realised who had snatched him up, but he looked almost as fearfully at Grantaire’s expression. “No, Grantaire, it’s okay, I’m fine, don’t-” he said, but all Grantaire saw was his bust lip and the pained tightness in his eyes, and marched over to the man. 

The man turned towards him, beginning to say “What do you want?” when Grantaire’s fist collided with his face. 

The man was a good four or five inches taller than Grantaire, probably twice as bulky, and really, Grantaire didn’t stand a chance. It was only rage propelling him forward, the desire to tear this man apart for laying a finger on Enjolras, who was more worthy and beautiful and righteous than anyone Grantaire had ever known. Mostly likely Enjolras could have dealt with this himself, probably somehow wrangling more signed petitions out of the situation with the odd well-placed smile – he was more than capable – but Grantaire didn’t stop to think of debating anything with this man. The intensity with which he wanted this man to _hurt_ for what he’d done scared him. 

His instincts were heightened with fury as he ducked just out of reach of the returning blow. He thought he heard Enjolras shout “Grantaire!”, lost concentration for a moment at the sound of _concern_ in Enjolras' voice, and in a moment of blurred pain, found himself with his back against the solid ground, cheek throbbing and the much larger man looming over him with a look of concentrated anger. He could hear sirens somewhere nearby. 

What Grantaire didn’t expect was him to hesitate, and, being pretty well practised in self-defence _(the number of times his sarcastic comments had earned him a drunken fight was getting out of hand)_ , he kicked the man’s legs out from under him. The man fell, and Grantaire was on him in a moment. He curled his fist into his shirt, shaking him as he shouted. He didn’t know what words poured from him, just knowing that he’d be ashamed later, and when the man’s fist met his cheek once more Grantaire wasn’t surprised. The man tore away from him and they both scrambled to their feet, breathing heavily as they glared. Grantaire turned, spotted Enjolras dithering nervously, like he was unsure how he could get them to stop using only his honeyed words, and Grantaire’s breath left him entirely. His opponent was a little faster in regaining some semblance of poise, and lunged towards him with a scowl. 

Enjolras, with a yell of anger, launched himself towards the man, tackling him to the ground with his momentum. It took a moment for Grantaire to grasp what he was yelling, but once he realised, he couldn’t help but laugh. “I am performing a citizen’s arrest. This is due to your assaulting another person, in this instance, my friend and I.” Grantaire tried desperately not to read into the fact that Enjolras called him his _friend._ “A person may use such force as is reasonable,” Enjolras continued, “in the circumstances in the prevention of crime, or in effecting or assisting in the lawful arrest of offenders or suspected offenders or of persons unlawfully at large,” he told the man, holding his arms behind his back as he pressed him into the grass. _Trust Enjolras to do this exactly by the book. He was probably ticking the bullet points off in his head._

Grantaire tried desperately to not make the fact that he was almost delirious with a bizarre mixture of possession and pride obvious. _Could he pass this off as being caused by the blows to the head?_ He had called him his friend _(though he couldn’t very well call him an acquaintance after tackling his opponent to the ground, Grantaire supposed)_ and now was knelt, looking flustered and angry and weirdly timeless in the flurry of students and police and paramedics around them. Grantaire wondered if this tunnel vision thing was normal, because literally all he could focus on was Enjolras’ expression, despite the fact he could definitely hear someone calling his name. 

He broke out of his weird reverie to see Joly run over to them, a look of pure shock and horror on his face as he stared at both him and Enjolras. Grantaire put a hand up to his cheek, and saw that his palm came away bloody. _It didn’t matter. It wasn’t the first time. Was Enjolras okay?_

Turning back around to check, he found Enjolras and the man being confronted by two hefty looking policemen. He could see the other man’s disdainful lips moving, gesturing in his direction with an expression of resentment. Grantaire sighed. He felt no desire to bolt, all the fight gone from him now that Enjolras was out of danger. _Just thank goodness he was okay._

The policemen spoke to him, saying something about assault, and he nodded wearily. Grantaire let himself go limp as handcuffs clicked around his own wrists moments later. Enjolras quoted his civil rights _(was that word for word?)_ furiously the whole way back to the station. Grantaire wondered idly how many times he’d been detained now – for being drunk and disorderly, for bar fights, and now this. The other man just growled insults and threats at both the policemen, Grantaire, and Enjolras. Grantaire just accepted it. _It wasn’t like this was the first time._

“Under ‘The Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984’ no arrest is lawful unless the person arrested is informed of the grounds of arrest at the time of, or as soon as is practical after, the arrest – so tell me, sir, do you usually arrest men for defending themselves?” Enjolras ranted angrily. 

“We were witness to the fact that your friend here punched this gentleman in the face, and then both of you were involved the brawl that followed. In what way is that defending himself?” 

“The man here deliberately kicked me in the face and side whilst I was down.” Enjolras murmured quietly, with a steely glint in his eyes. He was beautiful. Even with the split lip and darkening bruises, Grantaire just wanted curl against him, not letting anyone hurt him again. _Oh god, that was weird._

The rest of the ride was silent, and that only left Grantaire’s brain whirring. _Why was Enjolras not just getting a caution? It was obvious why Grantaire was being arrested – he’d been in this position before – but Enjolras? He’d merely tackled a guy and performed a citizen’s arrest. It didn’t make sense._

They were separated at the station, fingerprints and photos taken like usual, and put into cells. Grantaire thought he could hear Enjolras clattering down the hallway outside angrily when he was in getting his fingerprints recorded. It made him hurt, yet also smile, seeing Enjolras fallible and normal, though he would confess he never wanted Enjolras to come down to earth in this way. Enjolras was good and pure and upright and would be hating every moment of this, Grantaire was sure. 

Grantaire’s hands were almost too jittery to get good prints. They probably had his fingerprints on the system somewhere already, so what did it matter? _Although his hands shook last time too, he remembered, but that time, from too much drink and bravado – not from lack of drink and concern for his friend. Police weren’t meant to treat those they arrested badly. They weren’t meant to break any civil rights (and he knew Enjolras would certainly call them out for it if they did) but Enjolras was quite slight, and young, and filled with a righteous fury that they could hardly be blamed for wanting to kick out of him. He hoped he was okay._

\-- 

Grantaire was sat on the lumpy mattress of Cell 3, head in hands. _Oh god, he needed a drink._ Most of his belongings had been taken from him and he hated himself for his shaking limbs. A mixture of worry for Enjolras, lack of drink, and frustration at his own stupidity had prevented any impression of control. He sat and shook, hating himself more and more with every passing moment. Remembering Enjolras down, foot planted in his side and, worse, his radiant face, Grantaire couldn’t fault his actions, but was overcome with regret that he hadn’t been faster, more agile, stronger, better – anything to stop Enjolras getting involved. He was going to be furious with him. There was fury at his cynicism, and then there was unbridled fury, aimed at his own being - in fact, worse: aimed at his feelings for him. If Enjolras was angry at him for helping him, wanting to protect him, hanging around him all the time, his sloppy devotion, the wry smile and cynical remarks, then Grantaire was hollow. It was no wonder he filled his half-full self with alcohol and obsession, for there wasn’t much else. 

Grantaire looked up from perching on the end of the hard bed when he heard the sound of someone being frogmarched down the corridor outside. He ran a hand through his hair wearily. He hoped it wasn’t that man – he’d seemed like a right dick and probably wouldn’t shut up all night. Similarly, however, he couldn’t imagine Enjolras sat in contemplative silence. Grantaire got up onto the bed, and stood balanced precariously on tiptoe, could see through the little grille joining the two cells. He didn’t know whether he wanted to see Enjolras’ face looking back at him, or wanted the cell to remain empty, for him to be able to avoid Enjolras’ judgement for a little longer. 

Both cursing and praising his luck, Grantaire watched as Enjolras clattered into the room, all indignation and a mass of curls. He stumbled in, cast his eyes around once and looked like he was about to quote some rights act once more, before the door was slammed shut in his face. Grantaire’s fingers gripped the ledge beneath the grille, straining to see if Enjolras seemed okay – whether there was more blood and bruises than before. 

Enjolras slumped down onto the bed, much as he had done, head in hands. He looked so wholeheartedly miserable that it made Grantaire’s chest ache.

“Psst, over here.” 

Enjolras looked up in confusion, but must have spotted the wide blue eyes and dark curls peering through the grille because he just rolled his eyes and stood up. 

“Evening, Grantaire,” he said, like they’d just bumped into one another in the street, and weren’t having a murmured conversation through the grille of two conjoined, overnight police cells. 

“And what a fine evening it is too. Do you come here often?” Grantaire asked with a laugh, trying to disguise the way his nerves knotted up his stomach and he felt like he was going to fall off the bed and his palms were sweaty. 

Enjolras just looked at him blankly. “Be serious.” 

“I am wild.” Grantaire smiled, fingers clinging to the ledge. _This was the moment he would fall or fly._

Enjolras frowned. “Regardless, what the heck did you think you were doing today?” he scolded. 

“Doing what, Apollo?” Grantaire smirked. 

“You know full well what I mean. You shouldn’t have hit that man!”

“He kicked you.” Grantaire said, like that explained everything. _Because it did, really. Enjolras was just too detached to pick up on it._

“I was in the way.” Enjolras shrugged. It felt like a blow to Grantaire’s chest. 

“That doesn’t make it okay.” 

“Doesn’t it? I thought all people were inherently selfish? If I was in that man’s way, is it not within his own selfish interests to kick me?” Grantaire couldn’t help feel that the roles were slightly reversed today - seeing Enjolras , usually so impartial and haughty and almost statue-like in his reserve, worked up and visibly distressed, defending himself with barbed words. Usually, it was only ever a flurried attack on Grantaire’s views, the odd cutting remark about his drinking, and a well-placed thrust to the heart and it was over. He usually caught himself, calmed himself, and continued with whatever speech he was midway through – as if Grantaire’s interruption hadn’t happened, as if he hadn’t just clawed Grantaire’s world apart, as if Grantaire wasn’t worth a thing. To see him upset, not just flustered, but genuinely upset, was a knife to the ribs. Grantaire winced a little at the metaphor his brain had supplied. 

“Apollo, please-” Grantaire choked out. _Oh god, Grantaire had said something like that? He was unbearable._

“Don’t call me that!” Enjolras snapped. “I am not a god. I can’t even uphold my own morals, let alone impose them on other men.” 

Grantaire frowned, but through the grille all that could be seen was the furrowing of eyebrows. “What do you mean, Ap- Enjolras? You didn’t do anything wrong. You were quite within your rights to perform the citizen’s arrest. I’m... grateful, I suppose, for your help.” 

“I couldn’t let him beat you up.” Enjolras said angrily, as if justifying it to himself. 

“Mm, thanks for the vote of confidence there,” Grantaire’s guilt twisted his insides in a red-hot grip once more. _Why couldn’t he have been better, faster, more agile, stronger, more aware?_

“I... no, I mean, he was hitting you and I... I don’t know. I thought you could use a hand. I vaguely remembered how to rugby tackle from school.” 

“You were on the rugby team at school?” Grantaire frowned again. 

“Well, no. All-boy’s school. If you couldn’t rugby tackle someone, you were pretty much guaranteed to be picked on, so...” Enjolras smiled dryly. 

“You went to a public school?”

Enjolras laughed bitterly. “Couldn’t you tell? That’s usually my first criticism in debates or arguments - ‘you’re a rich white boy from a private school, what would you know of oppression?’ which is a fair point, I suppose.” 

Grantaire blushed at his thoughts on the matter earlier. He tried desperately not to think of Enjolras in a blazer and tie. 

“Right, um, well.” Grantaire stammered. There was an uncomfortable beat of silence before he registered the implicit _grievance_ in Enjolras’ words. He frowned, and said, a little too sharply: “You know a lot of kids would have killed for your upbringing, and you’re complaining that it hinders you a little in debates?” 

Enjolras’ eyes flashed a warning. Grantaire had never spoken to him long enough to gauge particularly touchy personal subjects before now. 

“Of course, I am... grateful,” Enjolras spat the last word resentfully, “for my education and the start I had.” 

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. He didn’t voice what he was thinking: _It certainly doesn’t look that way, Apollo._

“I suppose I would never have met Combeferre otherwise,” Enjolras continued musingly. 

“Oh, uh, yes,” Grantaire said, for lack of something better to say. 

“I just... um, always thought of myself as above that.” Enjolras continued. It was if he wasn’t speaking to Grantaire at all, anymore. 

“What?” Grantaire asked, puzzled. 

“Hitting people, baseless violence, resolving things without debate and words - I kind of hoped to be a pacifist after years of watching boys at school settle things with fists.” 

“I’m... sorry for bringing you down to my level.” Grantaire murmured. Enjolras looked as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly. 

“This isn’t my first time, you know.” 

“Uh, what?” 

“In a police station overnight.”

_Oh._ “You’ve done this before?” Grantaire asked. 

“Haven’t you?” Enjolras countered, eyes narrowing. 

Grantaire laughed. “A drunk like me? Yes, of course I have.” 

“Well, so have I. If you protest often enough, it’s bound to happen really,” Enjolras told him stubbornly. 

“Well that explains why they arrested you, I guess. I thought you might get away with a caution.” 

Enjolras frowned. “Oh no, I’m a public menace, me. Speaking up for the masses – truly criminal. They’ve been looking for an excuse for a while, and our stunt today gave it to them.” Grantaire wasn’t sure he liked this voice from Enjolras. It was a damn sight too close to bitter. It was a damn sight too close to his own. 

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire told him. 

“Why, exactly?” 

“I hit that man, and now we’re both stuck in a cell overnight, and, even worse for you, you’re stuck in a cell next to a man you can barely bear to speak to except from to argue idealism versus nihilism with.” 

Enjolras ran his fingers through his hair once before coming a little closer to the grate. “That’s not true.” He scowled, and Grantaire just wanted to smooth his forehead out beneath his fingers. _Goddammit, stop!_

“Is it not?” Grantaire countered. “We have been spending time together in a group for over a year and a half, and yet do we even know anything about one another? No. We just argue.” 

Enjolras just sighed. “You are incredibly intelligent, Grantaire, and I hate to see you wasting that. You could make a big difference if you tried, but instead you just drink and pull everyone’s arguments to shreds.” 

“ _Your_ arguments to shreds,” Grantaire corrected. 

“Yes,” Enjolras frowned, like this was something that often played on his mind, “why is that? When Combeferre speaks you never tear him down – are his arguments less fallible?” Enjolras looked a little self-conscious and affronted, and Grantaire tried _(and failed)_ not to find it weirdly endearing. 

“No,” Grantaire told him slowly.

“Then why?” Enjolras demanded, eyeing him through the grille. 

“I, uh, you. You, you’re good to...” 

“Wind up?” Enjolras supplied, harshly. 

Grantaire blushed, “A little?” he conceded. 

“So you merely play devil’s advocate to get a rise?” Enjolras frowned again, and Grantaire all but withered under his disappointment. 

“I guess?” 

Enjolras considered for a little while before saying “I suppose Jehan would tell me I should thank you for strengthening my arguments. It’s still infuriating though.” 

“Uh, you’re welcome?” Grantaire whispered, sure Enjolras could hear him as close to the grille as he was, “I’m still sorry for earlier, I shouldn’t have been so useless that you felt the need to get involved.” Grantaire wobbled slightly on the bed, fingers clenched tightly at the ledge. 

Enjolras pursed his lips, still frowning. “You’re not useless,” he murmured carefully, looking up at Grantaire. 

The voice in Grantaire’s head, the small part that could still be logical and talk sense, told him it was dangerous to cling so tightly to someone who could cut him so deeply, and yet, it was hardly likely he’d ever be able to let go after today. 

He stepped down from the bed, legs almost shaking at the way Enjolras had looked earnestly at him through the grate, like he had a reason to believe Grantaire wasn’t just a half-person, saturated in cheap booze, but actually worth something. He wasn’t just destined for scrap – an alcoholic art student, pinching matches and taking whatever pills he was given, arguing cases he didn’t believe in to infuriate the boy he loved. He was paper thin, fallible - battered and bruised and broken by a world that didn’t care. Enjolras was going places, studying politics, undoubtedly a future world leader – he had no reason to talk to someone like Grantaire, and yet - and yet, Enjolras felt he had a place, a purpose, somewhere, somehow. 

Grantaire had always taken care not to believe in anything, yet in a moment of startling clarity, he knew he would probably never stop believing in Enjolras, and all he could be. Enjolras could soar and fly enough for the both of them, whilst Grantaire’s temporary waxwork wings would probably send him plunging into addiction and a spiralling darkness soon enough. It was only by clinging to the light that Grantaire had made it thus far. 

He sat on the lumpy mattress again, running his hand through wild curls, wishing desperately for a drink - _any drink_ \- longing for the hip-flask they’d taken away from him.

Enjolras couldn’t do this to him. He couldn’t ignore him for over a year, shaping his name like a curse on his pretty lips, and then suddenly realise, _and somehow justify,_ his existence. He hated that he had this power over him – a way of helping him to fall or fly depending on whatever words he chose to voice that night. Grantaire knew his self-esteem was pretty questionable, but in his chokingly sober state he could see this wasn’t healthy. 

“Grantaire?” Enjolras called from the other side of the wall. “Are you okay?” His voice almost sounded worried. 

Grantaire wasn’t sure he could vocalise a reply, so he just made an affirmative sort of sound to the question, and tried to calm himself down. Enjolras had always shone brightly with the truths he spoke and this time was no different. He was the sun to Grantaire; a deity to worship, a body to orbit. He never expected any recognition or validation in return – the one-sided relationship just was. What supernova would pay any heed to a distant comet – all ice and dust – orbiting from afar? 

A thought struck him. “What’s your favourite colour?” 

“Red,” came the reply, and Grantaire just snorted. 

“Well of course it is.” 

“And yours?” 

Grantaire thought for a moment. “Bottle green.” 

He thought he heard a muted chuckle from the other room. 

“Okay, any reason you asked or...?” Enjolras asked, sounding rather confused. 

“I know something about _you,_ rather than just your views on workers’ rights and the death penalty and slut shaming and organic food and homophobia in mainstream sport and the government’s policies on benefits now.” Grantaire smiled with satisfaction and flung himself back onto the lumpy mattress. 

“Okay.” There was a long pause, a cleared throat, “I, uh, I’m going to get some sleep. Hopefully all the paperwork and things will be sorted by morning and we can get our sorry selves out of here. Goodnight Grantaire.” 

He kicked off his shoes and turned over to face the wall. “Goodnight Apollo,” he replied, and Enjolras didn’t even tell him off. Grantaire fell asleep smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm told that the whole 'public school'/ 'private school' thing is confusing for those outside of the UK. 
> 
> For future reference, they're the same. I know that's bizarre, since they sound polar opposites, but no. Public school and private school are the same - schools that are not state-funded and that you have to pay fees to attend. Generally the more well-off attend these schools, though scholarships are available for some people, and on the whole they tend also to achieve higher grades than state or comprehensive schools. This is obviously not always the case, but yeah.


	2. E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "His mere breathing out seemed to expel with it painful half-truths about the futility of everything Enjolras believed in, and he hated Grantaire for that."
> 
> In which Enjolras struggles with his complete bewilderment when it comes to Grantaire, Combeferre is disappointed, and Grantaire's coping mechanisms are decidedly not healthy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is up a little later than I had hoped. Life was conspiring against me! 
> 
> Any comments, criticisms or corrections would be lovely. If you see any mistakes, please do point them out! Pretty much everything I write about I have very little experience of in this fic. I did some method-writing whilst drinking wine, but not sure how much that counts! Again, my knowledge of the legal system is extraordinarily limited. If you see anything wrong, wildly OOC, grammatically incorrect - do let me know! Also, if you have any suggestions on where to go from here in the fic, go for it! Suggestions are definitely welcome - I'm basically writing as it comes, so it's not exactly planned out!
> 
> Apologies if this isn't great. It turns out I find Enjolras' voice harder to write than Grantaire. Maybe I'm just too cynical for this. ;) 
> 
> Any views expressed by characters are not necessarily my own. All characters belong to Victor Hugo, of course! 
> 
> This chapter has mentions of alcoholism, alcohol, drugs, and family conflict - just as a heads up. 
> 
> Thanks.

As Enjolras had predicted, several of Les Amis had come to bail them out once morning came. At the back of his mind somewhere, Enjolras thought he should probably be a little more grateful, but he was hardly surprised. Combeferre was the most dependable person in his life – there was no doubt that he’d be there. _Only thank God that Combeferre was on speaking terms with his own family, because he didn’t know where they’d get the bail money otherwise._ He wondered idly, and without too much concern, where Grantaire would get his. He obviously wasn’t well off, but if he had enough money for the copious amounts of alcohol he imbued each night, he probably had enough for bail money. 

Enjolras had been clattering around for two hours before Grantaire had woken up, and although formalising plans for the next rally in his mind occupied a fair amount of that time, he found himself wishing that Grantaire would just resurface already, even if he would just hiss his usual vitriol about all the causes that Enjoras fought for through the grille separating their cells. _It was still better than nothing though._

Enjolras was actually considering trying to wake him, craning his neck to see if Grantaire was still sprawled across the mattress, asleep with arms outstretched, grasping for something not there, or whether he’d woken up. He looked a lot more peaceful when asleep, less fractured, less sardonic – more soft and human. It was strange, seeing Grantaire without a smirk and bitter cynicism dripping from his quick tongue. It somehow made it harder to be angry with him and so Enjolras resolved to rouse him, just to restore the normality, when there was a knock at the cell door. 

“Come in,” he said solemnly, out of habit more than anything. 

A gruff looking policeman walked in, flanked by two young nervous-looking men, his badge proclaiming him 'Inspector Javert.' “You’re being released without charge. We’ve received significant evidence that you were attempting to defend your friend, and although we do not condone violence, and _will not hesitate_ to convict you should something like this happen again, you are free to go,” he told him, almost with an undertone of frustration, like he couldn’t bear such miscreants walking free on his streets. He glowered beneath his façade of polite authority. 

Enjolras just gritted his teeth and gave a curt nod, before being escorted down the lifeless corridors to the room where Combeferre and Jehan sat, looking thoroughly bored. 

Jehan leapt to his feet at the sight of him. “Enjolras!” He caught himself and stopped short instead hugging him, just clapping him on the shoulder, Enjolras noted, and he was grateful for that. Combeferre just smiled, with a mild “good to see you again” and a kindly pat to the forearm. Enjolras knew he shouldn’t flinch away from contact _– these were his friends! –_ and yet he couldn’t stand their light touches and cloying sympathy. _He was not breakable! They should save their understanding and consideration for the oppressed and abased, not for him. Enjolras was fine – it just hurt a little to know his father would never be here, looking furiously disappointed but there to bail him out nonetheless. It didn’t matter. His little life didn’t really matter at all._

Jehan was bubbling over with words that Enjolras only half-comprehended. “...the man is in hospital and is likely to make a full recovery. They’re still trying to work out who did it, but Éponine caught a snatched glance at the man, and she thinks it looks suspiciously like Montparnasse’s work – you know that scumbag she was with a year or so ago? So yeah, but the man who got stabbed should make a full recovery – isn’t that great? I was really worried. I mean, I was worried about you and Grantaire too, when I heard – where is Grantaire by the way? - but I’m glad the man is okay. Is Grantaire okay? Joly was hyperventilating when we got to him because the police had led him away with blood all over his face, apparently.” 

“Mm, yes, he seems fine. That’s good. I wouldn’t have liked anyone to get hurt at one of our rallies - and although that ship has pretty much already sailed- between the man who was stabbed, Grantaire, and I - I’m pleased he’s okay,” Enjolras conceded. 

Combeferre pursed his lips and murmured, “Have you spoken to Grantaire about this?” 

“Uh, yes actually. By some coincidence we were in adjacent cells, and there was a small connecting grate.” Jehan quirked an eyebrow at that. 

“And what did you say to him?” Combeferre’s eyes flashed a little behind his glasses as he said, “I hope you weren’t too hard on him, Enjolras. He was only trying to help you.” _And because of it, got us stuck in the police station overnight._

Enjolras frowned, “I know he was. I told him he shouldn’t have done it, but that I was glad he wasn’t hurt. He made a jab about my upbringing,” Jehan winced visibly, for it was known that Enjolras’ relationship with his parents was shaky at best, Enjolras just ignored it steadfastly, “and I responded, uh, by being a bit annoyed when he admitted he just argues to get a rise from me, and rarely believes in what he is saying – does he even believe in anything?-” _Apart from the perpetual drinking?_

“Then what?” Combeferre asked gently. 

“He, uh, asked me my favourite colour and then fell asleep,” Enjolras concluded lamely. Even Jehan looked fairly mystified. 

“Right, so, uh...” Combeferre began. Jehan just shot him a look that Enjolras didn’t have energy or will to decipher. 

“It was surreal – he spends the last two years tearing apart everything I believe in, turning up drunk to meetings, arguing with me with a look of pure disdain, and suddenly he’s there punching a guy who kicked me?” 

Jehan’s ears went red and he fiddled nervously with his braid. 

Combeferre looked pointedly at him, “Well, uh, he considers you a friend, Enjolras, you know that.” 

“I know friendship, Combeferre, and what Grantaire and I have is not friendship,” Enjolras muttered grimly. 

Jehan looked like he was about to faint. 

“What we have is barely controlled derision,” Enjolras scowled. “He believes in nothing – drinking being his only hobby besides winding me up, and sometimes, when he feels even more destructive, smoking and drugs. I’ve seen him, Combeferre, and I’m certain he has come to meetings high before now. He belittles our causes, attending rallies and meetings to merely gloat at whatever awful recent news story backs up his constant nihilism and cynicism. _That_ is not friendship.” 

“What a favourable report, Apollo,” he heard from behind him, and Enjolras turned to face a smile that was at once both acrid and desolate. Grantaire looked younger and rumpled, stood awkwardly in yesterday’s clothes with a tired expression of faint gratification _– like he’d expected this._

“Do you deny it?” he demanded coldly, a little embarrassed at having been caught midway through slandering Grantaire. His cheeks were red - he could feel it - but the look of detached, almost pained amusement on Grantaire’s face was provoking. _Did he really think so little of himself? Did he care for anything at all?_

“On the contrary, Apollo. You were succinct and eloquent as always. If I may correct you on one point, however, I have not as of yet come to any meetings whilst high.” 

“’As of yet’ being the critical words there,” Enjolras snapped. Combeferre gave him the glare that told him he’d overstepped the line, and Jehan’s was clutching Grantaire’s forearm, like he was afraid Grantaire might do something rash.

However, he merely opened his mouth as if to snap back, and then shut it again. Enjolras didn’t like the fractured look in his wide blue eyes, one almost swollen shut from the fight, but he was too far gone to hold back the tirade now. 

Enjolras prided himself on a lot of things, control being one of them, but there was something about the man’s front of indifference and lifestyle of derisive excesses that angered Enjolras in ways he could not explain. It was like poking a sore tooth – he knew it would hurt them both, but was satisfied to see some proof of feeling anything at all. There were either discussions that frequently crossed the boundary between thrilling challenge and personal attack, or nothing but searching looks, indifference and fervently avoiding one another. _Enjolras knew which he preferred._

“For two years, Grantaire, you merely turn up, drink, argue, smoke, sleep and gamble. You show no interest in the cause, and finally, when you _want to help,_ you land us both in custody.” 

“I knew you were angry with me,” Grantaire muttered, “even if you didn’t say so yesterday.” He fingered the cut on his face gently and winced, whether from the pain or from regretting jumping in to help Enjolras when all he got for thanks was _this,_ he didn’t know. 

Enjolras knew he should stop. There were tears in Jehan’s eyes as he said “Enjolras, please – enough now.” 

Enjolras couldn’t stop. “I could have handled the situation, and yet you had to come bowling in and start fighting. Are you really so base, so crude? Do you not see that if we had just communicated with the man-” 

“Actions speak louder than words, Apollo. And whether I believe in your causes or not, I always attend your meetings. What is that if not showing interest?” 

There was a tone to his voice that held implications. Enjolras could tell there was some obscure double meaning to those lines, but he couldn’t grasp at what it was. Grantaire’s hands were shaking and Enjolras didn’t know if it was the anger or the drink.

“I’ll give you a lift home,” Jehan all but squeaked, but his hands were steady and guiding Grantaire to the exit before Enjolras could say another word. _Jehan had always been dependable. How good of him to try to soften the blows of calculated cruelty with kindness._

Combeferre, in turn, looked at him with something a millimetre from disappointment, hurt and shock. “You went too far this time, Enjolras,” he told him, and turned to stride off to his car. Enjolras was left trailing along behind, anger turning sour quickly, now just nauseating him. 

_He was never like this. Never. Until he’d met Grantaire, he’d only ever been cool, calm, collected. He’d strike at the weakest points in debates, sure, but he’d never aim to hurt. He thought out every statement, enunciating coolly – a true hurricane to behold, it was said – and with a few sharp lines and leading questions, could turn almost any argument in his favour. Not anymore, it seemed. It was like Grantaire just shut off the part of his brain that thought how to counteract the cynic’s points rationally and intelligently, and new neural paths – ones that generated stream of slurs and disappointment and anger - were revealed in its place. He did not know how Grantaire managed to wind him up so, and yet he did._

Combeferre was perfectly well-mannered the whole way home, nothing but his clipped tone revealing his feelings on the matter. Enjolras didn’t like this coldness between them; he had thought with an icy certainty that Combeferre would understand, take his side even, but instead was faced with an impervious wall of polite chit-chat that he couldn’t seem to break through. 

‘Ferre had been his closest friend for as long as he could remember - he had calmed and tempered his madcap schemes throughout their school years – helping him when that wild desire for equality sometimes overran his civility - and was the guiding force of the group. Combeferre was passionate about the cause, but, unlike Enjolras, it wasn’t all-consuming. His friends were his true cause, and Enjolras, in a small _(and much-begrudged)_ manner admired the way he’d do anything for Les Amis de L’ABC as a whole, but more importantly, would do anything for each person who formed part of their complex spanning family. For, _as much as Enjolras would like to deny it and say they were united by a common cause and were actually revolutionaries,_ they truly were a family. _They were a more of a family to Enjolras than his actual blood-relations now._

Enjolras just sat next to Combeferre in the beat-up car without a hint of embarrassment, _(he was used to the bumper-stickers with philosophy jokes by now)_ , but a whole lot of bewilderment. He listened to Combeferre debate the merits and weak points of Enjolras’ latest speech, which he had proof-read as always, and as Enjolras sat, nodding in agreement, he wondered where he had messed up this time in his interactions with Grantaire.

“Combeferre, I...” Enjolras began nervously, throat dry. Combeferre turned slightly, eyes still fixed on the road ahead of them, and raising one eyebrow, waited for Enjolras to continue. 

“I, uh... you think Grantaire will be alright, don’t you?” Enjolras ventured, a little unsure. 

“I think only time will tell, Enjolras. I mean, sure, you’ve fought many times before, but this was unlike you. You don’t have to understand other people’s feelings, but you should at least comprehend that they are there. Not everyone can be like you, and you should stop trying to force your ideals onto him. He is nothing like you.” 

“I’m not trying to make him like me. I’m just trying to get him to care about _something!_ Do you know how infuriating-?” 

‘Ferre just broke in with a solemn: “He already cares about things, Enjolras. You just don’t register them.” 

“Like what?” Enjolras demanded hotly. 

“His art, his friends – you should see the way he helps ‘Ponine with Gavroche - even his beliefs to some extent, as nihilistic as they are. He does truly believe in what he is saying some of the time. Of course, that’s not necessarily a good thing, but he certainly is not as useless as you’d like to believe.”

_“You’re not useless,” he’d told him, and now, contradicted that sentiment so fully, so unfairly, so publically, in front of people Grantaire cared about. It was no wonder he was nervy._

Enjolras frowned, tendrils of shame climbing inside his chest. “So... it seems I have misjudged him. He never gives any hint of caring about anything. I’m sorry I snapped at him; I know you are not happy with me about it.” He could feel his cheeks heat a little at the admission. 

Combeferre shook his head ruefully. “He jumped in to help you, for goodness sake – what is that if not caring? Besides, it’s not me you should be telling this to right now,” he told him, as they pulled up outside the flat. 

“I guess not, but I’m probably the last person he wants to hear from now.” 

“You never know,” ‘Ferre smiled weakly, and there was a sliver of something that Enjolras could not place in his steady brown eyes. It might have been pity.

\--

Enjolras was usually very difficult to distract from his work. After his parents had told him so disdainfully that _“this wasn’t what they’d brought him up to do - why couldn’t he go into business like his father, or law like his cousin Mathieu?”_ he had thrown himself into politics, desperate to prove them wrong. _So they didn’t like his choice of degree, so they didn’t like his career path, so they didn’t like how he never behaved as he should – never bringing home the occasional well-bred girl, never creating small-talk and schmoosing rich business owners, never laughing at their hideous jokes and being placid and uninteresting and staying entirely on the right side of the law - if that meant a measly allowance, extremely limited contact - essentially no family- then so be it!_

Enjolras had no desire to go into business, swindling and schmoozing to get his own way, or law, fighting causes he didn’t give a damn about for a pay check that he was undeserving of. He wanted to change things for the better, allow everyone justice and a way to voice their opinions. He didn’t just want the rich to get richer and the poor to get poorer, as more and more was scrounged from the very people who needed his aid. Enjolras wanted to change things. He wanted to campaign, to work non-profit, to help those in need, and to forget all about his parents, who knew nothing except mindless consumerism and destructive capitalism, motivated always by profit and not the people. Slowly burying any semblance of humanity in the steady acquisition of material goods, Enjolras’ parents were the exact model he campaigned against. 

_It wasn’t like Grantaire could have known that when he had said that. He clearly had his own problems,_ Enjolras reasoned, _and yet - he knew R would never understand._

Remembering that crushed smile and terrible blue eyes, so stark against the faded clothes and careworn complexion, prompted another train of thought. Enjolras’ phone had been sat next to his half-written essay since he’d shut himself up to study, less than half an hour after ‘Ferre and his talk. It hadn’t buzzed with anyone trying to contact him, for which he was half-grateful and half-concerned. Éponine hadn’t even rang to give him hell for what he’d said, so she clearly didn’t know about it yet, or was busy looking out for Grantaire. Enjolras hoped it was not the latter. Even _he_ knew that Grantaire’s coping mechanisms weren’t what you’d call healthy. _The other night when he’d run off to God-knows-where and come back with slightly blown pupils, the scent of cigarette smoke and the sickly-sweetness of alcohol, wearing an aching smile and the same clothes as the day before, was proof enough of that._

He didn’t know what the others saw in Grantaire. He was clearly an alcoholic, painfully sardonic and destructive to the extreme. He turned up at meetings to drink and gamble and laugh and belittle and then run off to drink more, before coming back and making Enjolras feel _guilty. He didn’t even care about the cause!_

Enjolras wasn’t sure he’d ever felt this accountable for Grantaire’s vices before now. Grantaire had seen Enjolras in danger and did what he could to help; regardless of the fact that the guy who had kicked Enjolras was almost twice his size, R probably hadn’t eaten in 24 hours, and Enjolras showed him nothing but disapproval for _all he was_ whenever they spoke. 

But even the look in Combeferre’s eyes wasn’t enough to get him to pick up his phone and tell Grantaire all that had scratched its way out of Enjolras’ conscience. He didn’t want to hear Grantaire’s voice: usually sharp, accompanied with sly remarks and a quicksilver grin, or else unsophisticated and raw, a shot-glass too far along the path to drunkenness to deliver serious mocking or wit, but trying gallantly nonetheless. His mere breathing out seemed to expel with it painful half-truths about the futility of everything Enjolras believed in, and he hated Grantaire for that. Enjolras hated his sincerity when he spoke of how _pointless_ it all was. He hated him for throwing all of Enjolras’ worries back in his face. He hated him for stumbling into the back room at the Corinthe one day nearly two years before, glass of red wine in hand, giggling drunkenly and apologising with a thick tongue for intruding. 

Bahorel had grinned widely, and Courfeyrac had greeted him as “R!” rather too enthusiastically. Enjolras’ heart had just about sank right there as he merely gaped, halfway through a speech on the housing benefit. Both Bahorel and Courfeyrac helped this ‘R’ character as he staggered awkwardly before collapsing, limbs splayed, into a booth. He was paint-spattered, reeking of booze, and with wild, dark curls that seemed a little over-long and tousled. The force of contrast between his pale skin and inky black hair left him looking both luminescent under the bar lights and slightly ill. Enjolras could see how painfully thin he looked beneath his worn-soft green t-shirt, and even his eyes seemed hungry, somehow. 

He might have felt a sliver of pity, had the dark-haired man not launched into a slurred anecdote from the night Bahorel, Courfeyrac and he had met. Enjolras gritted his teeth angrily and shot the man a glare, but he didn’t even glance up fleetingly, just continuing his story. Courfeyrac hit him jovially on the back when R began to talk of which girl he’d taken home that evening, and Enjolras just pinched the bridge of his nose. _Who did this guy think he was, interrupting his speech like this?_

‘R’ had said something coarse that got them all sniggering loudly, and Enjolras actually clenched his fists and coughed pointedly to try to regain Les Amis’ attention so he could continue with the _goddamn speech_ that was the actual purpose of their meeting _\- before they had become an unofficial group of minders to a random drunk guy!_ When those blue eyes looked up, startled, and fixed on his, Enjolras could see fractured clarity beyond the pupils that seemed much too large. _Drugs too?_

“Bahorel, Courfeyrac – I had no idea you fraternised with fallen gods!” he’d announced, “Truly, I see Apollo before me, and what does he speak of? Housing benefits!” ‘R’ had coughed a laugh. “Yet surely Apollo’s home is Olympus, no?” he slurred, gesturing towards Enjolras with a lazy flourish, causing his wine to slop over the table. 

Enjolras had felt the colour rise on his cheeks, and resisted the urge to escort him out of the room for interrupting the speech, and now, _mocking him so completely._ Most of the others had just laughed, ignoring his discomfort, like this was _normal_ and _okay._

Joly had looked panicked, like he couldn’t be sure whether ‘R’ was hallucinating or not. Bahorel just held up a placating hand – “he’s pretty much always drunkenly babbling - we’ve seen him in enough bars to know that,” he chuckled. “Fucking amazing in a drinking competition though, eh, R?” Bahorel hit him on the shoulder, and Grantaire had just chuckled, still staring unashamedly towards Enjolras with a look of confused wonder. 

Enjolras opened his mouth and closed it again. “Does anyone mind telling me who-?” 

“Grantaire!” A slender brown-haired girl then stumbled into the back-room this time, laughing tipsily. “I wondered where you’d gotten to-” she stopped mid-sentence when she saw the group staring back at her confusedly. Recognition dawned in her eyes after a moment: “Hey, Marius? Is that you?” 

Marius had looked up from nursing his pint of shandy, staring longingly into it like it might show him where he could find that blonde girl he’d been prattling about for the last three meetings. “’Ponine!” he’d cried after a moment, and had gestured for her to sit next to him. “I’m wondering if you can help me. There’s this girl I saw the other day, and I’m really struggling to find her again. You seem to know pretty much everyone. Maybe you can help me?” He had then smiled obliviously at the strained expression on Éponine’s face. 

“I can give it a go,” she had conceded. 

“Brilliant!” Marius grinned, and then had promptly launched into a sickeningly poetic description of his _one true love._

Enjolras had felt his irritation go from mild frustration to actual anger when he saw how quickly the group had scattered. Combeferre shot him an apologetic look as Joly got up to watch the card trick Grantaire was drunkenly attempting, much to the amusement of Bahorel, Bossuet, Courfeyrac and Feuilly. Marius and Éponine were in deep discussion about the _elusive blonde girl_ and Jehan had sighed along with the disgustingly romantic description almost immediately. 

_This distraction was entirely this drunken man’s fault. Who cared about his damn conquests and drinking and stupid jokes when there were **actual issues** to resolve?_ Enjolras could hardly believe how quickly this wild-eyed, tangle-haired man had got under his skin. Enjolras had no right to ask him to leave, considering he’d not _technically_ done anything wrong, but this had only served to annoy the hell out of him even further. 

“Fine!” Enjolras had snapped, and pushed his way back through the huddle and into the booth next to Combeferre, fuming. _The speech clearly wasn’t being said today._

“Mmmmhhh, Apollo,” the man named ‘R’ had whined childishly, “carry on. You know how much we like housing benefits.” His drunkenness mangled the last word. 

Enjolras had just scowled, at both the nickname he’d suddenly been assigned, and at the clear mocking. Bahorel had just laughed, and somehow Enjolras managed to keep his mouth clenched shut, threading his fingers through his hair. He sat, fuming - reading his politics textbook and pointedly ignoring the jostling around him. For the first time in months, Enjolras ordered himself a bottle of hideously artsy beer, feeling completely rattled, and rubbing his forehead in frustration. 

Courfeyrac had soon spotted the conspicuous bottle in front of him, and pointed at it gleefully. “Hey, Grantaire!” he’d cried, “seems your presence alone is enough to get our Fearless Leader to have a drink.” 

Grantaire just grinned wolfishly. “Glad I could be of service!” he had laughed, “I never knew the desire to drink could rub off on others, or maybe it’s just my radiant presence? Though, of course, mine has nothing on dear Apollo here!” He winked at him, uncoordinatedly, and Enjolras just sighed. _Had Grantaire not mocked him enough already?_

 _Enjolras had taken a sip of the bitter drink and **hated him.** _

\-- 

Sat now at his desk, staring blearily at the book in front of him, Enjolras just rubbed his hand restlessly up and down his jaw line in annoyance at this memory. In truth, he was frustrated with himself for acting in such a way that he knew warranted an apology to this man. He knew he had to say sorry. _Later, maybe. Probably should let him calm down first._

It was then that Enjolras realised that Grantaire had bought him the exact same pretentiously hipster beer when Grantaire had sat him down for that _frankly bizarre_ conversation a few nights before at the Corinthe. Enjolras wasn’t sure what to make of that snippet of information, but he could feel the way that guilt squirmed in his chest uncomfortably. 

It was before midday, but Enjolras knew that had never stopped Grantaire’s excesses before. He just hoped that he was alright. Knowing he was probably in a bar, only a few streets away, ingesting an alarming quantity of strong alcohol and cheap cigarettes didn’t help his concentration. Of course, that would likely have been the case even if Enjolras had said nothing – Grantaire was never sober unless _absolutely_ necessary. _It couldn’t have been easy for him whilst locked in that cell,_ Enjolras realised with a start, and felt all the more awful. Grantaire’s drinking was beyond romanticised artistic musing now. It was clearly unhealthy, and Enjolras’ accusatory tone and judgemental glare couldn’t have helped. _Enjolras was campaigning for more help for those with addictions, and couldn’t even remain impartial and supportive for one of Les Amis’ number. He was unbelievable._

Joly, Jehan and Cosette had been concerned for months. Éponine had been worried since she’d walked into the bathroom to find Grantaire passed out on the floor, absinthe in hand, sprawled, concussed and breathing shallowly, about a year ago. Combeferre had told him about it in a hissed whisper a week after, when Grantaire returned to the meetings again, looking unsteady on his feet and pinched. Enjolras remembered feeling fleetingly concerned, before horrifying himself by feeling slightly justified in his opinions of Grantaire, and becoming preoccupied again with their upcoming rally. _He was truly terrible._

None of Les Amis really wanted to broach the subject with Grantaire, and for a while Grantaire looked like he’d been cutting back a little. Enjolras would hate even himself more than he hated R’s smirk if he had inadvertently caused anything bad to happen to him, for all that he didn’t like him the way the others seemed to. _If nothing else, at least Grantaire kept him on top of his game._

Desperate to stop himself from thinking about Grantaire and _what the heck to say to him,_ he got back to the essay in hand. The words seemed to stumble about the page, almost drunkenly, uncoordinated and ungainly in front of Enjolras’ bleary eyes. When Enjolras woke up again, face pressed uncomfortably into his textbook, it was nearly 7pm. _He never slept well in police cells._

\-- 

The others had taken to R almost immediately. Bahorel was delighted to find someone who he could drink others under the table with, Courfeyrac was glad for another person with a questionable sense of humour, Combeferre liked that R knew his philosophy (if mainly quoting people like Nietzsche), the remainder of the group liked that he wasn’t afraid to argue with Enjolras, and Enjolras, well, _he didn’t like that at all._

It was disconcerting. No one ever spoke to him the way Grantaire did – a bizarre mixture of mocking, drunken jokes, painful admissions and cynicism. It was uncomfortable, and _that’s why,_ Enjolras told himself, _he acted as he did._ Grantaire made him uncomfortable. 

He fervently hoped, nonetheless, that he would be at the meeting that night. Enjolras couldn’t give himself a satisfactory reason as to why he felt that way. He was usually there, a light dusting of ash and paint and permanent marker poetry on his skin, sat near the back of the room, fingers curled lovingly around the stem of a wine glass or the neck of a bottle, eyes hazy-bright as he challenged Enjolras one whatever topic it was that night. Enjolras wasn’t sure he’d ever missed more than a couple of meetings – once after one of their first more vicious exchanges, and a couple of times with exhaustion or illness or crippling hangovers. Enjolras wasn’t even sure why he turned up – why was he even pretending to “show interest” in the cause? It was obvious he had none. 

Whatever Grantaire’s reasoning, Enjolras hoped he would be there that night, no worse for wear than he’d last seen him. Enjolras knew that was hopelessly optimistic, even as he thought it. Of course, as he’d had feared, Grantaire, Éponine, and Jehan were not at the Corinthe that night. Enjolras watched the clock compulsively, shredding the napkin in front of him with nervous fingers. Only when, fifteen minutes later, it was clear they weren’t coming, did Enjolras begin. 

The speech wasn’t much, merely about the conclusions drawn from the workers’ rights rally, but Enjolras still seemed to be struggling against the words. He spoke almost wearily, trying to hide it behind a stern look, but in reality the others could all tell his heart wasn’t in it. His eyes weren’t bright with anger for a start, like they usually would be. He just sounded tired. _Enjolras hated the worried look in Musichetta’s eyes from behind the counter. She’d always been perceptive. He could see why Joly and Bossuet liked her._

Courfeyrac shifted in his seat uncomfortably, checking his mobile when he thought the others were not paying him any attention, and frowning slightly at every new text. _Looked like Jehan was keeping him updated then._ Enjolras could hardly bear the disappointed looks he was being thrown every now and again, but just wiped his hands nervously on the hem of his red coat and continued. Of course it meant nothing that Enjolras’ pauses were a little longer than they should have been, to make room for a certain cynic’s input. He did it all of three times, and kicked himself each time for looking towards Grantaire’s booth near the wall, ready to defend what he was saying. He’d actually brought a booklet of sources specially, after one too many shouts of “Where’s your source for that, Apollo? Surely you know the quote: ‘There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies and statistics’?” served with an overconfident smirk. 

Only Combeferre looked like he was interested, and it was only his small encouraging smile that got Enjolras to the end of his piece. He finished to a round of dull muted applause, but Enjolras knew most of Les Amis had only been half-listening. They, like him, were worried. _Yet, of course, they did not have to worry that it was **their words** that were exacerbating their friend’s self-destructive behaviour. _

He sat down next to Combeferre, whose smile dimmed slowly, as he realised why Enjolras was looking so thoroughly concerned and jittery. “I take it you’ve not rang or texted or made any attempt to contact Grantaire?” he asked carefully. 

“What was I meant to say?” Enjolras replied, in an equally measured tone. 

Courfeyrac scowled as he dropped into the booth next to them, balancing a pint glass and two lemonades precariously. “How about ‘sorry’ for starters, Enjolras? Jesus Christ, this is too much, even for you!-”

“Courf,” Combeferre murmured, the barest hint of a warning. 

“Jehan has been texting me, and it doesn’t exactly sound pretty,” he defended, putting his hands up. 

Enjolras looked upwards sharply from staring ashamedly at the beer mat on the table in front of him. “What did he say? Is Grantaire okay?” 

Courfeyrac smirked at the look of horror on Enjolras’ face, “Well, he’s been a whole lot better.” 

“Where is he? With whom?”

“Apparently Jehan and Éponine found him at a bar a few streets away, a fair way through a bottle of vodka and getting chatted up by some sleazy old guy.”

Enjolras frowned, something uncoiling unpleasantly in his stomach. “That level of intoxication means even if he said “yes,” it wouldn’t qualify as consent,” he hissed angrily. Combeferre just nodded, frowning.

“He then went out for a cigarette – apparently just a cigarette, but the others aren’t sure that it wasn’t something else - and got arguing with a group of two men that he should really have known better than to mess with, I think. Jehan, bless him, tried to break up the fight. He’s fine, he says, but Éponine is fuming anyway. They say Grantaire’s now got a marvellous black eye to match the cut cheek, but aside from that is unharmed, _thank God._ Jehan and ‘Ponine all but had to drag him back to the flat, and he was just slurring and mumbling random miserable shit, apparently, and painting.”

Enjolras winced. His chest felt tight and he didn’t know what it was that was making him feel so crushingly small and compacted. It seemed to require extra effort to breathe out. _Oh god, what had he done?_

“So fucking _ring him and apologise_ before he does something even stupider,” Courfeyrac all but snarled, walking off with his beer clasped tightly in his hands. Enjolras’ ribs contracted a little further and his heart was in his throat, all but choking him with the fear of _what Grantaire might say._

“Now?” Enjolras asked, looking nervously at his watch, which showed a little past eleven. _What would Grantaire possibly be thinking of him?_

“No, _next Tuesday!_ Yes now, Enjolras,” Combeferre rolled his eyes, “I’m certain R isn’t going to be asleep if he’s in one of those moods tonight.” 

“Right, uh, if you’ll excuse me.” Enjolras figured if he was going to have a potentially very explosive conversation with a drunken man he’d character-assassinated earlier that day, he’d rather do it where others couldn’t hear him. 

His hands actually shook has he dialled the number, and Enjolras scowled at his own feelings. _This man wasn’t even his friend! He was an acquaintance perhaps – he refused to join Courfeyrac in calling them frenemies – but nothing more. Enjolras’ politics were based on the desire to help and value others and so the weird magnetism – both the pull - Grantaire’s stupid smirk and his stupider opinions – and the repulsion – the destructive manner in which he conducted himself, the way he managed to make Enjolras pity and envy him by permanently hiding behind a thick veneer of drunken bravado, which only served to make Enjolras more and more guilty when he saw the fractured man behind it – was confusing. If he were any sort of decent person, he’d listen to Grantaire, try and be supportive, find the root of his cynicism and try to understand him, but instead, he pushed the usually guarded man much too far. He couldn’t help but argue against him; despite telling himself he’d just **rise above it** before every meeting, he got pulled into arguments unthinkingly. The line between them both just stating their conflicting opinions and beginning a shouting match blurred inexplicably every time. _

The echoing tinny ringing of the phone just served to amplify his feelings of panic. _Would Grantaire even pick up? Did Enjolras even want him to?_

When voicemail clicked on, Enjolras’ first overriding feeling was relief: _he didn’t have to face Grantaire now, drunk, hurt, probably very angry or else upset._ The emotion that followed a fraction of a second later was horror. He could be passed out, _Enjolras had heard plenty of stories of people choking on their own vomit from Joly, who seemed to have an endless supply to recount before any party, pub crawl or social gathering where there might be some alcohol,_ or high, or hurt, or drinking more, or, _equally badly, in Enjolras’ mind,_ feeling so hideously betrayed by Enjolras, who he had helped, and actually got hurt trying to defend, that he was refusing to answer on principle. Enjolras didn’t know Grantaire well enough to know if he would be petty enough to do that. _That wasn’t good. They’d known each other **two years.** Grantaire had been right when they said they knew nothing about one another except political beliefs. Enjolras found, to his surprise, that he regretted that. _

Staring at the blank screen of his phone, stood in an alley that smelt of cigarette smoke, cheap vodka and urine, Enjolras wondered when he got to be so like his father - so uncaring towards other people’s lives when striving for a goal – in his father’s case, more profit – and in his own, _the cause._

_How did he not see that the cause was for people **like** Grantaire? The cause was meant to work for everyone. Not **just** optimists. Not **just** those that believed. The cause was meant to give hope to everyone – even those who couldn’t remember what hope felt like. _

He stood in the dark – just a sliver of sky visible between the high walls, with a smattering of stars visible beyond the haze of light pollution - and wondered when he’d lost sight of the goals he had made as an idealistic child. _He knew he would be ashamed of himself if his past self could have ever known, and yet he had no idea how to help Grantaire, or, indeed, have a conversation with him that didn’t end up with the urge to strangle him. This was going to be hard work._


	3. R

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And that was always Grantaire’s problem – he was unable to balance on the thin line between caring too much and not caring enough – instead just swinging pendulously from one extreme to the other."
> 
> In which Grantaire is mightily hung over, Jehan serves tea, Éponine gets Grantaire to make a promise he is not sure he can keep, and Courfeyrac's birthday plans have epically bad timing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure what's going on here anymore! I intended this fic to be kind of fluffy but it's running away from me and getting progressively angstier. (That's now a word). I guess things will have to get worse before they get better, however. 
> 
> Apologies for the time it's taken for me to get this online. Also, I'm sorry for any mistakes, OOC parts, or inaccuracies - my knowledge of alcohol withdrawals and the like is just whatever I have gleaned from Google!
> 
> Comments, kudos, corrections, suggestions - all appreciated as usual! 
> 
> Any views expressed by characters are not necessarily my own. All characters belong to the wonderful Victor Hugo, as ever. 
> 
> Just as a warning, in this chapter we have: alcohol withdrawals, mentions of alcohol and drugs, very brief mention of abusive parents, brief mentions of homophobia and clearly unhealthy hero worship.
> 
> Thank you for reading.

Grantaire came around slowly. He was aware of a splitting headache before he even opened his eyes, and felt not so unlike how he imagined one may feel after being run over by a double-decker bus. The unpleasant thrumming at the base of his skull and the spiking pain behind his eyes when he chanced a peek out from under his cocoon of covers suggested a pretty mighty hangover. _Again._

He had devised a scale for hangovers many years previously, ranging from 1 _(mildly throbbing head, still feeling peachy keen and actually awake before 10am, dignity intact)_ which was very very rare, to 10 _(leave me here to ferment in my own body’s alcohol content, I can’t see, my head’s going to explode, are those my legs? please just give me a shit-tonne of painkillers and leave me here to die in relative peace)_ , which was rather more common. He guessed this was somewhere in the region of 8 or 9 on the hangover scale and tried vainly to remember what had set him off this time. Generally, he didn’t drink that much unless there was something wrong – social drinking didn’t usually take him any further than 6 on the scale. 

Grantaire shifted slightly, much to the disapproval of his churning stomach. Flopping weakly back into his pillow with a groan, he lay still to try to settle the reeling woozy pain in his abdomen. Admitting defeat as a wave of nausea rolled over him, he lurched upwards again, this time only to vomit into the bin that someone _(probably Éponine)_ had placed beside him. His mouth tasted disgusting – all vodka and cigarettes and shame. 

He could smell the alcohol and sweat on his skin, and sat, listing forwards to rest his head in his hands, surveying the wreckage of his life. Someone had relieved him of his jeans and whatever shirt he’d be wearing that night _(again, probably Éponine – that girl needed to be knighted or given sainthood or something)_ and draped them over his chair. There was a pint of water and two aspirin on his paint-splattered drawers, and Grantaire took them gratefully, trying to drink slowly so he didn’t throw up again. His stomach rolled listlessly as he massaged his head, groaning mournfully. _Whose stupid idea was this anyway?_

A newly painted canvas was propped against the wall; the paint fumes were ridiculously strong and playing havoc with Grantaire’s already sensitive head. He couldn’t remember painting the work, but there was red paint all over his hands, charcoal in the creases of his skin, pastel under his nails, and a feeling of burnt-out mania creeping over his body, so he supposed he must have painted it in the drunken whirl last night.

Grantaire occasionally worked whilst inebriated, and the finished result always was either a frenzied scrawling sprawling piece, like his mind had ravaged itself apart and the finished result was rendered in paint instead of blood and sweat; or something achingly honest – depression and alcoholism and obsession and delusion, all hung in suspension upon the canvas. There was rarely anything else. 

This painting managed to combine both of these styles to make an image so painfully open and deep and raw and frantic and meaningful that Grantaire could hardly bear to look at it. _At least that explained why the hangover was so bad though._

It was a self-portrait, of sorts. There was Grantaire; dusty and paint splattered, knelt down, pale, frighteningly lucid, deep and dark and void. He was a blur of turbulent shades of murky greens and blues and blacks, blending and blurring into a layered tangible shadow. His eyes were hungry, looking with a mixture of veneration and contrition towards his Apollo. Grantaire shuddered at the pale, sickly image, clinging like a climbing plant inching closer to the sun, wilted and yellowing and unhealthy – but striving, none the less, towards warmth and light and affection – taking anything it could get. It made him feel sick to his stomach – even more so than the awful hangover. 

Enjolras stood proudly in the scene on the canvas, looking utterly radiant – it was no coincidence Grantaire was all but knelt in shadows in the picture, devoid of the light that Enjolras seemed to cast out. He was looking almost haughtily disdainful in the red coat he sported so often, and seemed to pay no heed to Grantaire, who knelt with the bottle clasped in his hands like some sort of prayer by his feet. Enjolras’ colour seemed to seep away the closer to Grantaire he got and Grantaire couldn’t help but see himself as a black hole slowly pulling a burning livid spiral galaxy to pieces. Enjolras paid no heed to the sickly clinging thing, pale grip tight around the neck of a bottle, and seemed to be addressing someone outside of the picture with a passionate welcome. A small smile played about his lips, but Grantaire knew it was not directed at him in the least.

He retched again, sipping carefully at the water, and kept his gaze well away from the painting for the next half an hour. 

\-- 

Grantaire found Jehan sat at the rickety kitchen table, smoke coiling from the cigarette dangling from his elegant fingers and reading a battered paperback with a small smile. He looked up as Grantaire, steadying himself against the doorframe, staggered queasily into the room, still clutching the bin, not quite trusting himself not to be sick again.

“Jehan,” he croaked, “what’re you doing here?” 

“Oh, Éponine had a shift in the cafe, so she asked me to stay with you until she got back,” Jehan gestured absently, flicking the cigarette ash into the ashtray in front of him.

“Oh, well, you needn’t have, I mean, um, I- have you had coffee?” Grantaire gestured guiltily to the kettle. 

“There’s some left.” Jehan smiled, eyes dipping back to his book.

_Thank you, thank you, thank you._

“Jean Prouvaire – you are a saint.”

Jehan smiled, “I try.” 

“Courf is a lucky man.” Jehan’s eyes lit up with a fond smile at the words, and Grantaire was hit with sudden realisation.

“I –uh, why aren’t you with Courfeyrac? Oh god, did I make you miss the meeting? I’m sorry Jehan – I know how much you-”

“R, please, it’s fine,” he assured him, mildly.

_Grantaire searched his memory wildly for some trace of the previous night’s events, and found only the taste of cheap cigarettes and anger and humiliation._

“Oh God, I did make you miss the meeting! Ah, Enjolras will be so mad. I’m sorry Jehan – what did I do this time? I- I don’t even remember.” He pulled at his hair agitatedly. 

“Calm down, you’re fine.”

“What did I say? Did I say something awful?” 

Jehan’s expression hardened slightly. “No. You didn’t do anything wrong, R. Enjolras and you had a bit of a fight at the police station but it’s alright.” 

“Police sta- oh! Oh, God. How bad is it, Jehan? Tell me the truth. Damage assessment - _please?_ ” Grantaire asked, pouring them both a mug of coffee. 

“One pissed off Apollo, two disappointed friends – in him, not you, one sad artist, one case of mixing drink and drugs, one black eye,” Jehan reeled off sadly. 

_Just great._

Grantaire winced as his fingers explored the bruising, and watched silently as Jehan piled sugar and milk into his coffee. “I fucked up again then, basically?” he asked bitterly.

“So did he,” Jehan promised him gently. 

Grantaire spat a laugh. “The mighty Apollo, _fuck up?_ I doubt that very highly, Jehan. No doubt the resident cynic just said something riling again, and then ran away because he couldn’t handle whatever truthful backlash Apollo provided!”

Jehan frowned but said nothing. 

“I thought as much,” Grantaire smiled in muted triumph.

“You need to stop putting Enjolras on a pedestal, R. This isn’t even romantic anymore; it’s just unhealthy.”

“I’m not trying to be _romantic_ ,” Grantaire frowned. “He can’t even stand me.” 

Jehan flicked his cigarette ash again with a drawn-out, long-suffering sigh. 

“Enjolras is brilliant, okay, but he’s also the most oblivious, emotionally constipated man I have ever had the misfortune to meet,” Jehan, who always wore his heart so proudly on his sleeve, shuddered a little. “I think you confuse and infuriate him,” he continued, “and I know you think he hates you, but I can assure you he doesn’t. Not at all. Courf and I were texting throughout the meeting, and he said Enjolras was jittery all night, and kept looking over to your booth-” 

“Probably just waiting for me to say something disruptive-” Grantaire dismissed, quickly. 

“Maybe, but either way, he clearly feels bad about whatever he said, even if he’s not told anyone. Did he call or text you at all?” asked Jehan. 

Grantaire just scoffed, but stumbled back to his room to find out anyway. He found his scratched mobile on his desk, next to his keys and a crumpled ten pound note – all of which Éponine had clearly retrieved from his paint-flecked jean pockets. 

**One missed called from: Apollo (23:17)**

“Hey Prouvaire!” Grantaire called over his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“He actually _did_ try to call me.” Grantaire told him, confusedly.

Jehan wandered into Grantaire’s room, looking ethereal, dainty – almost waiflike in his floral shirt and thin bracelet-encircled wrists – but somehow also with an edge of toughness: his skin-tight violet jeans were tattered, and he was wearing tan brogues that clearly belonged at one time to Courfeyrac, but Jehan had decorated them with tiny nail polish daisies and skulls.

He beamed – “I told you!”

“Then why are you looking so pleased and surprised?” Grantaire frowned. “I mean, no doubt Combeferre or Courfeyrac had a word with him or something.” 

_He tried desperately to ignore the pink flush on Jehan’s cheeks. He tried desperately to pretend that Enjolras had thought of him of his own accord, that he might have regretted what he said in the tiny corner of his heart that wasn’t filled with an obsessive love for his causes. No such luck, it seemed._

“Grantaire, I-”

“Save it, Jehan. It doesn’t matter anyway.” Grantaire sighed.

“He cares about you – I know he does!”

“You try to look for love and kindness everywhere, Jehan, and that is what makes you beautiful. I see this as it really is – a useless drunk muddling through life, clinging to a god on earth in a desperate attempt to keep his head above the floodwater. It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re wrong, Grantaire. There’s definitely someth-” he faltered suddenly. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?” Grantaire followed Jehan’s gaze. “Oh, that? What I painted last night, apparently,” he lifted his stained hands for inspection, with a sour smile.

Jehan looked equally strained. “It’s – it’s beautiful, R, but... is that really how you see yourself? I mean - R, please, that’s not how it is at all.”

Grantaire let out a short bitter laugh. _Is it not? Tell me how it is it all ended up this way then, Jehan._

Jehan’s eyes were shining with unshed tears. He looked almost stunned, back to the canvas then towards Grantaire, a little pitiful, a little horrified and a little sad. “You are worth so much more than you realise. You are a brilliant friend to us all, and you are talented and funny. You are a better dancer than Courfeyrac, (but don’t tell him I said that) and the day you box with Bahorel completely sober will be the day you beat him once and for all. The only reason that guy got one over on you is because you were clearly not well, and distracted by like... Enjolras’ arse or something,” Grantaire let out a scandalised splutter, “There is so much more to you than Enjolras and your drink problem – R, please. Look at me.”

Grantaire looked up at him with the eyes of a lost child, and found himself enveloped in a fierce hug that smelt of wild lilac. “The drink is not my biggest problem,” he mumbled into Jehan’s soft, strawberry blond hair.

“I know, R, I know,” he murmured back soothingly, and led him back to the kitchen table.

\-- 

Éponine traipsed back into the flat two hours later to find Grantaire looking pale, hung-over and drained, but significantly calmer and a little more balanced. Jehan sat opposite from him at the kitchen table, and they both had mugs of herbal tea in their ink-covered hands: camomile for Jehan, and peppermint for Grantaire, and a plate of biscuits in front of them. Jehan was like a kindly old woman in how he dealt with stress; tea and biscuits held the answer to all of life’s problems. Grantaire shot her a tired smile, and he saw her eyes lingering on the coils of poetry disappearing under the long sleeves of his shirt, mixed in with vines and quotes in French and snowdrops.

 _Grantaire wished he’d never let Jehan teach him the Victorian flower language. What 'hope' was there?_

“Alright, all?” Éponine looked pointedly hopeful, and Grantaire distrusted that immediately.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing, just had an actually okay shift! A fiver tip and everything-” she smiled.

“’Ponine – I know it’s not just that. We’ve been friends since we were about six. Don’t think I can’t see right through you!” He narrowed his eyes at her.

“Combeferre came into the cafe whilst I was there,” Éponine began. Grantaire laughed a little at how Jehan sat up a little straighter at that – _always looking to bloody match-make, that one!_

“He asked after you,” Éponine nodded towards Grantaire, who muttered something about not wanting anyone’s sympathy, before she continued “so obviously I told him to tell Enjolras that if he did anything like this again I’d kick his arse.”

"But how would Grantaire then admire it?" Jehan asked with a cheeky smile. 

Grantaire coughed, choking a little on a biscuit he was nibbling on half-heartedly, whereas Jehan leapt to his feet to whack Grantaire hard on the back, before dodging around the table to kiss Éponine enthusiastically on the cheek. “Go on,” he said eagerly, twirling the bracelets around his fine-boned wrists excitedly.

“He said that Enjolras tried to call you and he assumes you didn’t pick up, judging by how much Enjolras was glowering for the rest of the night. So yeah, he just hoped you were okay, as you didn’t pick up your phone, and Enjolras fell asleep doing an essay or something and apparently that’s a _Very Bad Sign_ because last time this happened it was because his parents all but disowned him. Like, he just drank coffee and didn’t eat and wrote essays and spoke to no one for days and slept at his desk, Combeferre said. Jeez, that man is a _saint_ for putting up with all Enjolras' shit.”

“Wh-what?”

“His parents disowned him?” Grantaire frowned worriedly.

 _He had mentioned his upbringing in their conversation,_ he realised with a stomach-lurching start, _and tried to rile him up further when he reacted badly! Could he not just leave things alone?_

Éponine clapped a hand over her mouth with a frightened look. “Oh fuck, what? No. Sorry, I wasn’t meant to repeat that bit, oh god. He told me that in confidence! Oh god, oh god!”

“It’s okay, ‘Ponine.” Jehan mimed zipping his lips shut.

“I think Combeferre’s just really concerned and needed to vent. Besides, I know all about utterly fucked-up families,” Éponine continued anxiously.

“Don’t we all?” Grantaire shot her a sardonic grin.

_He was no stranger to feeling like a disappointment. He’d been intelligent but apathetic throughout school, bunking lessons and smoking on the playing field whenever he could. The only lesson he tried in was art, because he enjoyed it and other people said he had talent, even if he only saw dark smudges of subconscious dredged up for public viewing instead of remarkable brushwork. His father had hit him when he first found him in bed with another boy – “No son of mine will be a fucking faggot!” he’d screamed in his face, ignoring the fact that Grantaire had snuck several girls out over the years too. His sister, three years younger, had whispered comforting nothings into his curls as he cried, and his itching fingers reached for the vodka hidden under his bed. Éloise was going to be fine – she was ambitious and steadfast. The only disappointment she presented was her deep affection and protectiveness regarding her older brother. There was no resentment there – he loved his sister with everything he had – but there was always the part of him that wondered maybe they’d have been as proud of him as they were of her if he was good with sums and figures and finance, instead of meandering listlessly from vice to vice and painting on the odd occasion when he was sober enough to hold a paintbrush. His parents were disappointed at his decision to study art at university – quoting unemployment figures at him like it had half a chance of changing his mind - and, a week before he left, snapping entirely and telling him not to expect any financial help from them – he wasn’t freeloading off them any longer, with the drink and cigarettes and drugs and paint. They said the word “paint” with the most disdain of all. It didn’t matter anyway. None of it mattered._

Éponine’s look confirmed she knew what he was thinking about and she smiled weakly at him.

_“Show no weakness, remember?” they’d pinky-promised one another, walking into the Fresher’s Fair with the armour of a brittle smile, a hipflask and the knowledge that their families couldn’t hold them back now. This was their chance to start anew, and Grantaire used it as an opportunity to retreat into his fortified shell – hiding all vulnerabilities and fleshiness and softness from being pecked at by the hordes of students around him. Vodka only improved the impermeable nature of his defences._

_It was then that he’d spotted Enjolras, deep in conversation with a bespectacled boy – later introduced as Combeferre - gesticulating wildly and angrily about something. He was wearing that red coat and an expression of mild disdain and had hair so perfectly coiffed that it reminded Grantaire of statues of Apollo that he’d seen on art trips and in his crappy Sixth Form’s dusty books. He was achingly beautiful, but even Apollo’s profile couldn’t make him blind to the look on Éponine’s face. She shook her head – this was going to be bad news, her expression told him - and it turned out that she wasn’t wrong. Grantaire just stood staring, stunned. He didn’t even question how suddenly his paintings became infused with swirls of golds and reds, or why he was so enamoured by Greek myths after having not read one in years. It was a quiet acceptance that characterised the beginning of Grantaire’s newest addiction, and it wasn’t until he stumbled into the backroom at the Corinthe a month or two later that he began to see Éponine’s point._

Grantaire was dragged back from his thoughts with Jehan sing-songing: “I think 'Ferre liiiikes you!” at Éponine with a broad smile. _Bad move. Bad move._

Éponine paled slightly, tried to laugh it off with a “What? No way!” that was wholly transparent to Grantaire, and quickly offered Jehan another cup of tea.

_He and Enjolras clearly weren’t the only ones who were severely defunct when it came to communication around here. It was lucky they had Jehan and Courfeyrac as self-appointed cupids. They’d successfully gotten Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta into a relationship, after all. Éponine deserved some happiness after all the crap with Montparnasse and Marius, and Combeferre was solid and dependable and kind and patient, and maybe that could be good for her._

_She certainly deserved it._

_Éponine had befriended him with the candidness only children could muster. “What’s that?” she’d demanded, pointing at his crayon drawing._

_Grantaire had looked up, startled, at the thin young girl in front of him. She had eyes much too old for her innocent face, and swung her own battered notebook, sandwich and chewed pencils in a holey carrier bag absently in front of her. The rest of the children had rucksacks and lunchboxes and pencil cases, but Éponine stood in her scuffed shoes with nothing, but still smiled more broadly than any of the others. Grantaire looked down at his own squashed sandwich, carton of apple juice and stubby, snapped crayons._

_“So, what is it?” she asked again._

_“I-uh, a tiger,” he’d mumbled, uncertainly._

_“A tiger?” she looked distinctly unimpressed and raised one eyebrow at him. “Here, try this orange then. That one is shit.” She handed him a brand new pen set from her carrier bag, and sat beside him to help colour the tiger in._

_Grantaire learnt later that she’d taken the pen set from her parents’ corner shop when they weren’t looking. The bruises on her legs suggested they may have caught her stealing several times before. One beautifully coloured tiger and a shared carton of apple juice later, and the pair were firm friends._

“Tea, R?”

Grantaire looked up to see Éponine stood with the kettle, poised to pour, hovering over his mug. 

“Hm? Oh – yeah, okay.”

She joined them at the kitchen table, kicking her shoes off and folding her legs under her as she perched on the chair. “So, spill Jehan. What’s the plan for Courf’s birthday?”

“Birthday?” Grantaire echoed confusedly.

_Thank God his friends had the grace to ignore the fact that he had clearly forgotten._

“Well, we were thinking going to that club tomorrow night, you know how much he likes dancing and stuff, so yeah, that could be good. Combeferre and Enjolras will hate it – I swear ‘Ferre has two left feet when it comes to dancing, and Enjolras won’t like it because... well, it’s not liberating the masses, is it? – but it should be great. Is about nine-thirty okay for you two?”

“We’ll be there,” Éponine confirmed with a smile. “Grantaire hasn’t danced with me in so damn long – probably afraid he’ll be shown up!”

_Hah!_

“You wait ‘Ponine- let’s see who is shown up!” Grantaire smiled weakly.

The argument continued in the same vein for the next ten minutes, and Éponine soon had Grantaire in a headlock, mussing his already messy hair fondly. “Say I’m better, R! Say it! Say it!”

“I’ll never give in! Never!” Grantaire cried. 

“Say it!” she tugged his curls lightly, knowing his weakness.

“Wha-aaargh! Yes, yes, you’re better. You’re better!” he all but shrieked. Jehan was smiling widely at them both by the time he left. Grantaire’s heart fell a fraction as the door closed behind him. _Enjolras would be at the party,_ he realised belatedly. _Oh fuck. What the hell had he just agreed to?_

\-- 

“Let’s see it then,” Éponine announced, less than ten minutes after Jehan had gone back to his and Bahorel’s flat.

“See what?”

“The masterpiece. You were clattering ‘round an awful lot last night, R. You were clearly working on something."

__

Oh bugger. Here comes another heartfelt rant.

“I’m not sure you’ll like it. Jehan didn’t. I don’t, even.”

Éponine shrugged, and allowed Grantaire to unwillingly lead the way to his room.

She took one long look at it, taking it all in with widening eyes.

“Oh,” Éponine breathed, “Grantaire-” – the end of the sentence muffled against his chest as she rushed into his arms.

_Okay, so this was a bit of a surprise. Éponine rarely showed affection. She was tough, clever, resilient. Éponine had found a beautiful balance between confident and intimidating, sensible and uncannily street-smart. She didn’t cry. She certainly didn’t throw herself into Grantaire’s arms._

“Ép, what- what is it?”

“I love you, R. Okay? Truly. You are brilliant, but I hate that your self-esteem always relies on what one or two other people think. It used to be your parents, and then we came to university – I thought you’d moved on. You joined societies, attended lectures, made friends with Bahorel and Jehan and Courf and a couple of people from art class. I thought “yes, we’re finally doing this. We’re finally leaving them behind.”" She shot him a watery smile. "We got a flat. We got jobs. We were finally self-sufficient and I was free from my parents and their criminal past, and you were free from your parents and their ridiculous expectations, and I thought it was all going okay! You were never really _that_ happy, were you? There was all the Greek paintings, and the way you got through red paint at a rate of knots and all those stories: the Odyssey, the Illiad, whatever the hell else. I don’t know. I never even saw you paint with red until then! Our drinking both crept back up, but yours especially. Then there was the drugs. I was moping over Marius, yes, but you were slowly killing yourself over Enjolras. And nobody – _nobody!_ – is worth that. You are my best friend. I don’t want to see you hurting yourself. Please, R, you can’t keep doing this. Please, please tell me you’ll try to cut back the drinking again.”

She untangled herself from his arms, looking up at him. As she looked directly into his eyes with her eyes that, just like when she was six, had seen too much; Grantaire knew he couldn’t ever keep the truth from her.

“I – Éponine, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise-”

“No, Grantaire, you’ve done nothing wrong. Just please, you need to stop this. You are my best friend. Maybe we need to go out and get you in a relationship with another guy. I don’t know. Anything. I’m worried about you.”

“I promise I’ll try to cut back the drinking. I’m not promising anything about relationships with other guys though. I’m not looking for a relationship.”

Éponine raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “So, you’re saying if Enjolras offered...?”

“I’m not sure I could refuse him anything,” Grantaire sighed. “Apollo is a special case. But the chances are so minutely tiny, I don’t think I have to worry about breaking the ‘no relationships’ rule.”

“There’s a rule?”

“My father-”

“Means nothing now. You can’t let him dictate your life, R.”

“I’m not! I’m doing an art degree, aren’t I?”

“And yet you refuse to have _relationships_ with guys, and you stopped your ballet classes-”

“They were costing us too much-”

“And the drink wasn’t?”

“No – I, okay, you’re probably right. I just... I don’t know what I want.”

“You should want to be accepted for who you are – and not change for others.”

Grantaire just hummed noncommittally . His face broke into a wry smile, “And so says the girl who wants me to cut back on my drinking.”

“You know I just want you to be okay-”

“I was kidding. I said I’d _try_ , didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. I’m sorry, R. Please, next time, just call me. Talk to me. Whatever. Just please don’t go marching off. Do you even know how fucking sleazy that guy looked, who was taking to you? He like, had his hand on your arm and his smile... urgh. Please. Just don’t do that again.”

Grantaire smiled slightly as Éponine shuddered at the man’s apparent ‘sleaziness’. _Says the girl who dated Montparnasse!_

“Gotcha.”

“And as impressive as it is, watching a man with twig arms beat up two men who look like rugby players – please don’t make me watch Jehan do that again. I was pretty worried - for all that he’s... a kung-fu expert or whatever. I expect Courf would burst a fucking vein.”

Grantaire laughed a little wheezily. “Yes, I expect he would.”

Éponine took one last look at the offending canvas with a worried intake of breath. “I’m going to shower and change out of this hideous uniform – we can talk later if you want, R.”

Grantaire just smiled weakly, with a nod that promised nothing.

\-- 

Grantaire tucked the canvas, once dry, behind his battered wardrobe. It was a self-assembly Ikea model – the cheapest, tackiest one they could find – and had been put together by Bahorel and himself whilst completely drunk, and as such, it was leaning a little too much, and was loose and wobbly. _He couldn’t imagine anyone would look behind there. Not behind the death-trap wardrobe._

The painting hurt, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw it out – not with Enjolras rendered so uncaringly beautiful as he smiled at someone out of scene. It was a chest-constricting ache, a shade too painful for it to be lust or, indeed, _love_. Obsession or addiction, perhaps - but the words held too many grimy connotations for Grantaire to wish to associate them with his righteous Apollo. Adoration or devotion didn’t even do the feelings justice: he wished to always bask in the rays of Enjolras’ fervour. The intensity of his passion seemed to fill the fissures and chasms in Grantaire, make him feel complete and whole and unbroken – just for a while. When that intensity was turned on him it was almost burning, yet so vivid and beautiful that Grantaire couldn’t look away.

Grantaire said anything he could to perpetuate the feeling of being under Enjolras’ fiery gaze – cynicism only excited more anger and passion and zeal and so Grantaire willingly took any fallout that came with it, whether it was healthy or not. Granted - more often than not, it was not healthy. However, if the price for being under the gaze of Apollo was washing his mind clean of disdainful remarks each night with whiskey, wine or absinthe, then so be it!

\-- 

He became aware of the tremors in his fingers at 3pm and begged for the evening to arrive soon, when he could finally drink in a bar when it was socially acceptable _(like he’d ever really cared before)_ and not face the disapproving glances from his friends _(which he probably cared about too much)_. And that was always Grantaire’s problem – he was unable to balance on the thin line between caring too much and not caring enough – instead just swinging pendulously from one extreme to the other.

He managed to ignore the Sirens’ song for an hour and a half, fidgeting on the sofa next to Éponine, watching some awful predictable sitcom. He felt the need to pace around or something, but also felt like that was too much of a visible sign of his agitation. Grantaire was desperate to appear as strong as he could in front of Éponine – she knew his habit was bad, but getting desperate within four hours of waking up would be a worrying reality check, even for her, who lived with him!

_He’d gotten disturbingly good at hiding his vices when it suited him – alone in his room, when Éponine wasn’t home, sometimes during the night when he could hear Éponine’s steady breathing from next door – shaking hands unscrewed lids of bottles and greedy lips and throats welcomed the relieving buzz of whatever alcohol he’d grabbed in his desperation and haste. Perhaps it was a shameful secret, but he was functioning! Day to day, he still went to work, he still socialised and he was still doing okay in class (when he turned up). That was as much as he had ever hoped for. It was usually his own disappointment and dismay – only sometimes aggravated by something Enjolras had said – that broke the comforting rhythm of a glass before he left the house, a hipflask, a lunchtime drink or two, a hipflask, two or three downed before he hit the bar, and several more once there. It was usually **then** that he retreated into drunkenness the way others might retreat into a defensive stance, and it was usually **then** , several hours later, that the blackouts would start, and the humiliation would hit him like a bus the next morning._

His hands were visibly trembling as he clenched them around another mug of peppermint tea. _It wasn’t enough – damn it!_

Grantaire could feel the sweat prickling his underarms and the back of his neck, and glanced desperately in Éponine’s direction. The feelings of nausea from that morning seemed to be creeping back with a vengeance. “’Ponine – I, I really need something – please, I really-”

She turned towards him, doing her best to not allow anything betray the flickering emotions beneath the surface. Taking in the sheen of sweat and his trembling hands, she sighed. “I really think we might have to involve Joly or Combeferre this time, R. I’m certain the tremors didn’t start for at least another two or three hours last time.”

“Éponine,” Grantaire pleaded. It was only her say-so that made the giving in a tiny bit more manageable. It was a sweet pain that eased the burning of his skin and rolling of his stomach, but it only served to exacerbate the feelings of shame and worthlessness. _How weak was he that he couldn’t go a couple of hours without a drink? The night in the cell had been painful enough – but this! This was unbearable!_

Éponine nodded shortly, and Grantaire stood before the nod had even finished, rushing into the kitchen. Fingers quavered around a bottle of vodka, as he unscrewed the lid.

“Something fairly weak!” Éponine called from the sofa.

Grantaire opened a beer, slugged half down in glorious rush, before tipping a measure of the vodka into the beer bottle and tried to ignore the clenching guilt in his chest. He stowed the vodka back in the cupboard and prayed Éponine wouldn’t notice the diminished amount next time she went to add some to her coke.

He smiled weakly as he settled back onto the sofa, mouth curving around the lip of the beer bottle almost reverently. Éponine smiled back with a warmth that didn’t reach her eyes.

 _Managing to disappoint her already – way to go!_ Grantaire thought bitterly, as he drank down more sweet poison, almost unthinkingly.

“I – I’m sorry, Ép, I just... this, really- this isn’t easy for me,” he mumbled.

“I know, R. I know. I promise I will try to be here for you though. You don’t have to go through this all on your own,” she murmured, playing with one of his inky curls.

“I know- I, thank you.”

“It’s fine. It’s more than fine. You are my best friend, R.” She paused, clearly unsure how to phrase the next sentence. “Are you sure you don’t want to mention this to any of the others? It might help to have a larger support network – especially Joly and Combeferre. They probably have experience with this sort of th-”

“No, no. Éponine, please don’t mention this to the others. I don’t want them thinking me weaker than they already do.”

“They don’t think you weak, Grantaire.”

_Okay, riggght._

“It’s okay, Ép. Let’s get back to this shitty show before I get more confused on who’s who than I am already.”

He didn’t miss the worried look that she shot him in reply, but they both dutifully turned back to the show, Grantaire’s fingers still clasped tightly around the rapidly emptying bottle. _It was enough, for now._

Even Apollo himself couldn’t make this easy.

\-- 

Éponine’s eyes seemed to keep flitting towards him as she stood chatting idly at the counter with Musichetta, who was whipping up elaborate coffees with a grace and dexterity which came with inherent elegance, as well as a scary amount of practice.

Grantaire tried to be surreptitious with his pouring, quickly tipping whiskey into his black coffee, but evidentially didn’t do a good job of it – trembling fingers hardly aiding his coordination. Bahorel seemed to notice the swift movement, and, grabbing Grantaire’s wrist, he laughed and insisted he wanted Irish coffee too. Grantaire bit his lip as the amber liquid dissipated into two separate coffees, and tried to hide the way his hands shook.

_Oh God, he needed that drink. He needed that drink to block out the fact that his hands were trembling and he felt sick and like his skull was split in two. He needed that drink to steady himself and drown out the feelings of self-consciousness and worthlessness that had coloured the last few days. Most of all, however, he needed that drink to forget his stupid promise to Jehan about attending that party. Of course he wanted to see his friends, to celebrate Courfeyrac’s birthday – but just not in a place brimming with all kinds of alcohol, and certainly not trapped in a fairly enclosed space with a fallen god who deemed him unworthy of his friendship, or indeed, most of the time, any high degree of notice._


	4. E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He might see the admonishments as encouragement to fulfil his vast potential, but from what Éponine had said, Grantaire sure as hell didn’t see it that way."
> 
> In which Courfeyrac's birthday celebration becomes more of a drunken confession session, with Enjolras being oblivious and well-meaning, but ultimately very wound-up, and repeatedly putting his foot in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found this chapter exceedingly hard to write. If you're confused by the feelings/friendship/general insanity that is between Grantaire and Enjolras then let me assure you that you are not the only one. 
> 
> Sorry this has taken so long to get online. Any mistakes, OOC parts or inaccuracies are my fault (everything's unbeta'd) and for that, I apologise. Any comments, corrections, kudos or suggestions are hugely appreciated. 
> 
> Any views expressed by characters aren't necessarily my own and all the characters belong to Victor Hugo.
> 
> In this chapter we have drinking, mentions of alcoholism, mentions of family conflict, mentions of drugs, unhealthy dynamics regarding the E/R "friendship" - by which I mean an almost hurtful lack of attention aimed at Grantaire on Enjolras' part until he sees him as his new cause - and general stupidity. 
> 
> I'm angry just typing a summary.

“Why do we have to go to this anyway? I mean – neither of us _like_ this sort of thing-” Enjolras grumbled as they approached the club. It didn’t look much from the outside, but Courfeyrac assured him that this was _where it was at,_ whatever that meant. 

“It’s Courfeyrac’s birthday. Everyone will be there,” Combeferre reminded him.

“That’s the problem, ‘Ferre. I’ve not even spoken to him since... then.” Enjolras tugged uncomfortably at his sleeves and hem of his shirt. It was a tad too short as it had been borrowed from Combeferre; he himself hadn’t much to wear that had even a sliver of possibility of fitting into the ‘club scene’. 

“Look, Grantaire’s going to be there, E – accept it. So apologise to him and end this bizarre dancing around one another thing, okay? Just please don’t get into another argument or row with him. This is Courfeyrac’s birthday celebration and I’m sure he doesn’t want you two at each others’ throats all night, yelling at one another.” Combeferre said mildly, taking in Enjolras’ stubborn expression. 

“No indeed, Courfeyrac would rather the Fearless Leader stopped getting his panties in a twist and just asked out our resident cynic for a date or something. You’ve been on edge since I don’t even know when... since about birth, Enjolras. Maybe it would help you to do something about it?” Courfeyrac cut in from behind them with a sly wink, as Enjolras spluttered furiously.

“I’ll have you know that I don’t think about any of Les Amis in that manner-”

“That’s the thing, you don’t think about anyone in that manner!” Courfeyrac smirked.

“That’s not the point! The point is I’m not interested in it right now. I’m too busy for holding hands and writing each other poetry and whatever the hell else you and Jehan spend your time doing.”

Combeferre snorted loudly and inelegantly as Courfeyrac leered over at Enjolras: “I can assure you that’s not _all_ we’ve been doing, E.” 

“I don’t need to hear about your love life, Courf. Not even on your birthday, thanks.” 

“Well, perhaps you and Combeferre should have arrived on time then, instead of nearly an hour late!”

“Forty-five minutes!” Combeferre protested lightly, “and only because Enjolras couldn’t find an appropriate shirt, and insisted he should make a start on an essay which isn’t due until two weeks on Monday!” 

“Still not _entirely sure_ that shirt qualifies as _appropriate_ ,” Courfeyrac teased, poking Enjolras in the stomach where the slightly too small shirt rode up to show a sliver of midriff. 

Enjolras just spluttered again.

“Anyway, you’re out of luck. You both arrived ‘forty-five’ minutes late, and thus you are going to have to hear me wax poetic about my love life unless you get inside that club right now and _actually have fun_.” Courfeyrac smiled, teasingly. 

Enjolras just pulled a face, and Courfeyrac took a deep breath and spread his arms dramatically. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more-”

Enjolras all but jerked away from him, and grabbing Combeferre by the elbow, the three made their way inside the club with Courfeyrac tailing behind, still grinning broadly. _Why was he friends with this total arse?_ Enjolras wondered with fond exasperation, for not the first time. 

The dance floor only had a couple of groups dancing this early in the night, with most of Les Amis congregated around the bar. The majority were watching a fiercely contested arm wrestle between Jehan and Bahorel. Bahorel’s forfeit for losing was agreeing to being dragged onto the dance floor by Jehan later on, whilst Jehan’s was to buy Bahorel’s drinks for the rest of the night. It was an odd sight, the slight poet and the hulking man, locked together in such a closely-fought match, elbows resting on the bar counter. Jehan was still smiling sweetly as Courfeyrac made his way over and gave his shoulders a joking squeeze, pretending to be his coach. “You’re doing so well, darling,” he murmured over the music. Bahorel looked mildly threatening – clearly perplexed at where the much smaller man’s strength was coming from – snarling in the poet’s direction and looking rather like he was struggling to keep his hand from being pushed to the table in defeat. 

Enjolras caught himself from smiling too dotingly and scanned around for Combeferre, who’d pushed deeper into the crowd somewhere for a better view. 

He found himself next to Feuilly, who quickly pushed a beer into his hand, and they then spent a good fifteen minutes discussing the prejudiced treatment of Polish immigrants. It was a subject close to Feuilly’s heart, considering his parents had moved over to England when he was about two years old, and worked constantly - doing hundreds of menial jobs that no one wanted to do, barely getting the minimum wage - to get by, and were still constantly accused of taking English citizens’ jobs. Feuilly was desperately proud of his heritage, and despite the fact his parents had died when he was a little over eight years old and he was shepherded from foster home to foster home, he’d done incredibly well for himself. 

Enjolras had a bit of a soft spot for Feuilly – he was incredibly passionate and hard-working – and so was immediately immersed in the conversation, forgetting the thudding music and strobe lights altogether. 

It wasn’t until Courfeyrac nudged him with a smirk that he turned to see what the rest of Les Amis were now staring and whooping at. 

Grantaire and Éponine were on the dance floor. Dancing together. Enjolras blinked, felt the insistent desire to roll his eyes at his friends, and was about to turn back to his conversation with Feuilly when he did a double take and _really looked._

_Now, he knew **nothing** about dancing, but... they were good. They were **really** good._

Éponine moved incredibly gracefully - utterly responsive and in sync with Grantaire’s every move. She twirled, laughing gleefully and tossing her head back, and Enjolras was surprised to see Grantaire chuckling right back at her. Her red dress spun out like petals of an exotic flower, and her tanned limbs seemed to move in time with the music instinctively, like she could anticipate every beat and pulse of the song. 

_That_ was surprising enough. _Grantaire, on the other hand!_

Grantaire looked like an utter throwback, stood there in dirty jeans and a leather jacket, curls ruffled, and the neckline of his t-shirt slightly askew. Something about his style of dress, and the easy freeness with which he smiled as he danced, reminded Enjolras of films he had sat through from the ‘50s. He spun Éponine effortlessly and laughed as he did so, moving with grace and ease. It was fast and frantic and intense. She looked equally comfortable being spun as she was to grind against her flatmate, and Enjolras tried not to gulp at the look on Grantaire’s face. _Where did he learn to dance like **that?**_

Enjolras looked quickly back at the rest of his friends, yet none of them seemed to be as surprised at the developments as he was. _He didn’t even know Grantaire could dance._ Jehan was just smiling happily, and blushed as Courfeyrac dragged him onto the dance floor too. It wasn’t long before Cosette had Marius awkwardly swaying with her, bright red and apologising profusely as he stepped on her toes. Musichetta was trying to convince Joly to dance with her, but he was muttering about common sprain injuries that people acquired whilst dancing, and she wasn’t foolhardy enough to get Bossuet to dance with her – it was just as likely he’d break both their legs, somehow – and so she swanned over to Combeferre, with a slightly predatory smile, and clamping her hand around his wrist, said “Come and dance with me, Doctor.” 

He smiled mildly, stumbled a little as she dragged him towards the dance floor, quickly reminding her he was only _actually_ a medical student. Enjolras smiled affectionately towards his friend, and knew Musichetta would probably regret her choice within minutes – Combeferre was known for being a pretty poor dancer.

Watching his friend disappear into the crowd, pulled along by Joly’s and Bossuet’s formidable girlfriend, Enjolras turned back to the others. 

Feuilly was still looking towards the dance floor appreciatively, and Enjolras followed his friend’s admiring gaze to see Grantaire slowly bowing Éponine into a sweeping bend, his hand low on her back as she rippled gracefully backwards. He was still smiling, making the fact he was supporting her weight with one hand look like second nature. Éponine ran her hands unhurriedly down Grantaire’s sides, before wheeling her arms elegantly back over her head, leaning further back in Grantaire’s strong hands, still smiling.

Grantaire bent forward with a wide grin, nosing along the smooth curve of Éponine’s neck achingly slowly. Enjolras’ stomach clenched a little, and he blushed at how the beer seemed to be affecting him already. _Sure, he drank rarely, but his heated cheeks and slightly dopey grin didn’t usually come until later. He’d have to slow down with the drinking if he was like this already! He didn’t want to get caught up in karaoke or one of Courfeyrac’s awful drinking games if he let his guard down. As “leader” (or at least “main speech-giver”) of Les Amis de L’ABC, he couldn’t have them losing respect for him._

Grantaire chose that moment to look up, and seemed to falter for a moment as he caught sight of Enjolras stood at the bar. His icy eyes flared briefly _(was he still annoyed at him?)_ before giving Éponine a quick peck on the cheek and supporting her carefully as she flexed back up out of their pose. 

She clapped Grantaire on the arm, smiling, and Enjolras couldn’t make out their words over the pounding music but he looked open and happy and teasing, so Enjolras’ stomach relaxed a little. _Maybe he wasn’t still mad at him._

Grantaire sauntered over to the bar, and fishing money out of his tight jean pockets, gestured for a beer, still smiling easily. Enjolras tried desperately not to shuffle too much next to him, displaying his discomfort. _Combeferre said he should apologise. He should apologise. He should definitely ap-_

“I didn’t know you could dance,” he blurted, and immediately blushed. _Damn it!_

Grantaire turned and frowned at him, sipping his beer. “I thought we’d established that there was a lot neither of us knew about one another?” he said calmly.

“I- uh, sorry. I didn’t mean to just blurt-uh,” Enjolras took a breath and tried to rearrange his thoughts so they didn’t just show him Grantaire dancing on a loop, “What I meant to say - what I was planning to say - was that I’m sorry for what I said to you the other day. It was unkind.”

Grantaire just smiled. “You don’t have to apologise just because you think maybe you ought to,” he said. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know, I, I’m sorry though. You don’t owe me anything either. You don’t owe me enthusiasm or drive or hope or anything, and although I know you’re capable of it, I’m sorry I keep expecting you to be something that you don’t want to be. You’re perfectly entitled to be cynical if you want to.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows drew together as he took a long gulp of the beer in his hand. _Wasn’t he usually onto spirits by now? By this time of night, Grantaire was usually interrupting speeches, stinking of whiskey and a couple of hours from smoking furiously or being sick in the alley. Not that Enjolras had noticed._

Grantaire seemed to regard Enjolras amusedly for a moment before saying, “’The power of accurate observation is commonly called cynicism by those who have not got it.’”

Enjolras frowned. “’Scratch any cynic and you will find a disappointed idealist,’” he told him.

Grantaire let out his barking laugh at that. “Oh, Apollo. You are always such good value for money.” 

Enjolras scrunched up his eyebrows in response. _This felt altogether too close to being mocked._ His fists clenched by his sides. “Wh-” he began angrily, before catching himself, “what do you mean?”

Grantaire just chuckled again, muttering “disappointed idealist!” a little incredulously. He took another slow slug of beer. 

Enjolras waited for further explanation, but saw he wasn’t likely to get any. “So where did you learn to dance like that?” he asked, sensing he should change the subject, considering his strict instructions _not to argue under any circumstances_ on Courfeyrac’s birthday.

Grantaire just shrugged. “I did ballet until last year.” 

“Ballet?” It was Enjolras’ turn to be incredulous. 

Grantaire narrowed his eyes and bit out an affirmation. “Yes – _incredibly_ , I do have hobbies outside of drinking.”

“Uh, sure. Yes. I just didn’t know you did ballet.”

“A lot you don’t know, remember? I kick-box and fence, Combeferre is _clearly_ attracted to Éponine, Bossuet has a new job, Gavroche got a C on his last report card, Musichetta has added at least three new dishes to the menu in the last week, but I’m sure you didn’t notice any of those things.”

“I, Combeferre? - uh, right.” _He made a serious mental note to speak to ‘Ferre about his later on._

“And if you paid any attention to your friends outside of the context of how useful they are to the cause, you’d know that!”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras’ expression hardened imperceptibly, “I-”

Grantaire just waved his hand impatiently, disregarding any explanation likely to come from Enjolras’ silver tongue. “It doesn’t matter, Apollo. It’s just the way you are. The cause always comes first. We understand,” he all but sighed, sounding slightly disappointed. _Enjolras wasn’t sure if he was disappointed in himself or in Enjolras. He was equally unsure what the worst option was, of the two._

Enjolras grasped for a hold on the conversation. _Damn, Grantaire! How could one man be so disorientating?_

“Ballet?” he asked weakly, clinging to any topic that wasn’t the way Enjolras was work-obsessed and _apparently completely oblivious_ and Grantaire was getting through the beer much too fast. 

“That’s how Jehan and I met. That and kickboxing,” Grantaire told him solemnly.

Enjolras physically gaped at him. “I thought you met when you stumbled,” Grantaire’s eyes narrowed again and Enjolras coughed embarrassedly, “I mean, _walked_ into the backroom at the Corinthe that time.”

“No. I knew Bahorel, Courf, Jehan and Feuilly before then.” 

“Feuilly. How-?” Enjolras began. 

“We do the same fucking course, Enjolras! How else do you think-?”

“Oh.”

Grantaire looked up, seeming to take in his expression with bewildered eyes. “You didn’t know I was doing art?” he asked in disbelief, looking downtrodden. He took another gulp of beer and settled the empty bottle on the bar counter with a sharp clink.

Enjolras blushed. _He’d known Grantaire nearly two years – how had he not known? He cast his mind to the other Amis and realised he wasn’t entirely sure on what Bahorel was studying, or even **if** he was studying. The only reason he knew what Cosette was doing was because Marius went on about it near constantly. Obviously Joly and Combeferre were doing medicine. Marius and Bossuet were doing Law. Éponine, Jehan and Cosette were doing English Literature and Courfeyrac was doing Drama. That’s how Jehan and Courfeyrac had first met – bumping into one another at a lecture they both shared about symbolism in some play or other. Courfeyrac wouldn’t shut up about “the most beautiful auburn boy in floral cut offs” for a good week. Musichetta had graduated a year before them, having done Management, and was now doing a fantastic job “managing” the Musain and her rowdy group of friends. Feuilly (and apparently Grantaire) were doing art. Oops. _

“I mean, I knew you painted – it’s on your clothes often enough – I just didn’t know you were actually doing an art course. I thought maybe philosophy or something-”

“No, the philosophy is just the product of a lot of time spent reading, smoking weird shit, and having drunk, existential conversations as a teen,” he muttered hollowly.

Grantaire looked down at his clothing, running his hands self-consciously over his jacket, like he was now checking for paint flecks. Looking back up at Enjolras with a flicker of hurt, he ordered another beer, handing over the money with hands that appeared to be trembling in the strange strobe lighting. 

_This was not going well. Quick, uh, talk about something else. Anything to stop Grantaire going through that beer as quickly as he’d gulped down the last one._

“I’ve not seen any of your work, R,” Enjolras began slowly. “What do you paint?”

“Most of my friends haven’t seen my work, Apollo, so that’s hardly a surprise. Only Éponine and Jehan – oh, and Feuilly, but y’know _we’re on the same course_ so... yeah,” he said tonelessly. “As for what I paint – I don’t think you’d approve. It’s not exactly beautiful rolling landscapes or _‘Liberty Leading the People’!_ ”

“I’m sure it’s... uh, good. In its way.” Enjolras stumbled over the compliment awkwardly. Grantaire’s relative sobriety meant that the hurt flashed even clearer in his wide eyes. _Not the best thing to say?_

“Only you could make what was meant to be an apologetic compliment into an insult, Apollo. Anyway, I don’t need any sympathy. I plan to dance the night away,” Grantaire winked at him, “and get suitably drunk and probably stumble home with whoever’ll have me.”

Grantaire raised his bottle silently in mock toast, before necking the beer and ambling back onto the dance floor. He grabbed Jehan from Courfeyrac (who let out a yell of “Hey!” that could be heard over the thrumming music) and they began to dance, Grantaire’s fingers still curled a little too tightly around his beer, like he was afraid someone would take it from him.

_Well, shit. That really didn’t go to plan. Enjolras had **planned** to say he was here for him, that he was willing to listen and be supportive and apologise for being such a shitty friend. Enjolras may be oblivious and work-obsessed, but he wasn’t heartless and cruel. He wasn’t his father._

Courfeyrac sulked for all of three seconds before joining Enjolras next to the bar, curly hair slightly sweaty from the dancing, and eyes full of excitement.

“Hey, uh, Courf. Good birthday?” Enjolras asked. _It was only polite to show some sort of interest._

“Mm, yeah, good. What happened with Grantaire?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“I apologised? Badly?”

“That’s all?”

Enjolras frowned confusedly. “Well, what else was there meant to be?”

Courfeyrac’s smile dimmed a bit. “You treat him so differently to the rest of us, I just thought... y’know what? Don’t worry. Hey – barman! Can we get another two beers over here?” He grinned again, pushing one into Enjolras’ already protesting hands.

“No, I really-”

“I stand by what I said. You’re on edge and you need to let go a little. Having a drink one night with your friends on their birthday isn’t going to send you spiralling into debauchery and ruin. Don’t worry,” Courfeyrac teased.

Enjolras raised one eyebrow. “I know, I’m not st-”

“I know Grantaire is basically the poster boy for why it’s a good idea to be teetotal, but really, Enjolras, _come and have some fun!”_

Enjolras accepted the beer begrudgingly, a little thrown by Courfeyrac’s mention of Grantaire’s drinking habits, and followed his friend back to where most of Les Amis were now stood, lounging at the bar. Joly was whispering into Bossuet’s ear, eyes full of adoration, and his boyfriend was smiling broadly right back at him. Cosette and Marius were curled up together _actually feeding each other nachos._ Marius’ expression was almost _nauseating._ Combeferre was stood next to a stony-faced Éponine ( _now wearing Grantaire’s leather jacket, to Enjolras’ confusion_ ), red-faced and still apologising to Musichetta for his dancing. Musichetta was laughing good-naturedly at him and refusing to give him free coffee next time he came in, because of the amount of times he’d nearly tripped her over.

Feuilly was admitting defeat with anything but grace as he and Bahorel arm-wrestled. “You little shit! Again?” 

“Sure thing, my red-headed friend! Guess who owes me another beer?” Bahorel grinned. 

Jehan flounced over at that moment, breathless and grinning, still clutching Grantaire’s hand. “Hey Bahorel! Guess who owes me a dance though?” 

Bahorel rolled his eyes. “Let’s get this shit over with then!” he murmured gruffly. “Feuilly, I’m expecting an ice-cold beer waiting for me when I get back here, as commiseration,” he told him with a wink. Grantaire just snorted at that, letting go of Jehan’s hand.

“Aye-aye, Cap’n.” Feuilly pretended to salute the much larger man.

Jehan bowed and offered Bahorel his hand, “May I have this dance, my good sir?” 

Bahorel rolled his eyes. “You may,” he all but grunted, and allowed himself to be pulled up out of his chair, which Grantaire then promptly collapsed into, taking another deep gulp of beer.

_Enjolras didn’t miss the sharp look that passed between Éponine and Grantaire._

His head was tipped back against the back of the chair, and he looked exhausted. There were dark bruises beneath his eyes, and not just from fighting. _Clearly not sleeping well._ Even in his tiredness and with the balance he maintained on the knife-edge of drunkenness, he exuded rakish charm, and Enjolras was shocked he’d never associated him with art class before. _Wearing faded obscure rock band shirts was probably a pretty large clue, even if Enjolras would never stoop to judging appearances like that._

_It was gratifying though, knowing that Grantaire had talent for things. Well, a talent for something other than winding him up. In a way, it made it harder to see him care so little. Enjolras had only ever seen him paint simple signs and banners, but if he painted even half as well as he danced, and had a sliver of focus and drive, then Grantaire could be more than even Enjolras thought him capable of. He was clever and funny, beneath the infuriating demeanour. He quoted philosophers and playwrights and political authors in normal conversation, for God’s sake! He was obviously intelligent when he wasn’t losing himself in the bottom of a bottle._

Combeferre nudged him out of his reverie with a small smile. “Go dance with someone or something. You look completely lost just stood there.”

“C’mon, ‘Ferre, you know I’m nearly as bad as you when it comes to d-” he protested quickly.

“Sure, sure, Rapunzel. Come dance with me,” Éponine smirked.

Enjolras all but gulped. _How did she make that sound threatening? That dark smile and Grantaire’s jacket on her thin frame really wasn’t helping matters. She looked as if she was going to judo throw him._

“There you go then, E,” Combeferre smiled lightly at the hint of panic on Enjolras’ face and clapped him on the shoulder.

Éponine led them both onto the dance floor, making sure they were not too close to Jehan and Bahorel ( _so his murder had no witnesses?_ ) and clasped his hands a fraction too tight.

Her smile had dropped almost as soon as they left their group of friends, and Enjolras could actually smell whatever awful, strong, fruity concoction she’d been drinking earlier. The fact that she was looking sober didn’t make him feel better about whatever was coming next.

“I don’t care how damn shiny your hair is, if you do that to him again I will fucking _end you_ ,” she told him savagely. _Enjolras didn’t doubt her for a second._

“I, uh, what-?” he stammered back. _Anyone in their right mind would be scared of Éponine like this. It wasn’t cowardice. It was simple self-preservation._

“Do you even realise how much he actually likes you? You must have noticed. He wants to be your friend, and you just cut him down every damn chance you get. To reiterate,” she emphasised every syllable coldly, “if you do that one more time, you’re not going to like the outcome for you,” she told him, by way of explanation.

“I don’t mean to-”

“No, sure. _‘I don’t mean to. He’s winding me up.’_ ” Éponine’s high-pitched impersonation hit like a well-placed punch. “I know, but know what? You’re not meant to react! Or do, in fact – a bit of lively debate is a good thing, Grantaire loves that shit – but you’re not meant to stand there and just rip his character apart right in front of his eyes, damn it!”

“I know, I’m sorry. Éponine, truly, I am.” 

“And have you told him this, or just glared at him whilst he was dancing and talking with our friends to make him feel as uncomfortable as possible on what is meant to be a fun evening out?”

“I apologised to him earlier. Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“I might have, um, apologised and then made it worse again?” Enjolras muttered apologetically.

“I swear, Enjolras, if I have to clean up his vomit tonight, God help you!”

Enjolras just looked at her blankly.

She rolled her eyes. “You’ve not noticed the correlation between how much someone upsets or disapproves of him and how much he drinks?” She laughed mirthlessly. “Well, I guess you never saw him in his teenage years with his parents.”

“His parents?”

Éponine nodded. “And there we have the root of the problem,” she smiled grimly.

 _It was his parents that had sent him into this spiral? Didn’t they see what could be made of their son if they just backed him and supported him in his endeavours?_ Enjolras thought viciously. 

The realisation that Enjolras was no better than them – _no more outwardly supportive, no more understanding and no more involved in Grantaire’s life_ – left his mouth tasting bitter from more than just the beer.

“I, oh- shit! This is, this is me, isn’t it? The recent drinking – it’s because I shouted at him to leave and then he went missing and-”

“Get a hold of yourself, Rapunzel. You’re not that fucking important!” Éponine snapped. “He’s always drunk like this since he was about sixteen when his dad found out he-” Éponine coughed to cover whatever she was about to say, cheeks reddening slightly, “- and he just carried on. Routine, I guess. I won’t pretend it doesn’t get a whole lot worse when he’s stressed out or upset or whatever though. Distraction is kind of key. The drinking is just a really fucked-up coping mechanism he’s cultivated quite religiously for some years,” she smiled wryly. “He likes you and cares what you think. So, I just wanted you to know, as someone with the power to totally mess him up, that you need to tone it a hell of a lot down.”

“I, I’ll bear that in mind.”

Éponine allowed herself one small tight smile that didn’t reach her brown eyes. “I hope for your sake that you mean that, and actually try and remember what I said next time he’s _‘winding you up’_. Thanks for the dance.”

They’d been rocking from foot to foot, hands clasped as tight as to cause pain, and glaring at one another - _an extraordinarily loose interpretation of the word ‘dance’_ \- but Enjolras smiled back civilly, and tried not to turn Éponine’s words over and over in his head for the remainder of the evening.

\--

Grantaire, true to his word, danced with nearly everyone that evening, getting progressively drunker but somehow, no less graceful and fluid. Enjolras couldn’t help but stare.

_He’d known that Éponine and Grantaire’s childhood had been anything but idyllic, only having got into university with a shit-tonne of scholarships, additional financial support and being especially charming at the interviews. Éponine didn’t keep her charm secret – she regularly wheedled her way into getting free drinks, discounts on things, and good bargains – and loathe though Enjolras was to admit it, he knew not all of it was given freely to her. When he saw her slipping a box of tampons, a pack of batteries and two tubes of Smarties into her bag, he just took deep breaths and reminded himself that the multimillion pound corporations are full of corruption, and raised prices screw over those with the lowest incomes, and not everyone is comfortable going to soup-kitchens and drop-off boxes and asking for help._

_Beneath it all, he knew he didn’t understand. But why would he? Grantaire had essentially said it himself: he was an over-privileged rich-boy, playing at making changes for socioeconomic classes he didn’t belong to. He just hoped the others couldn’t see, as clearly as Grantaire seemed to, how out of his depth he was._

Grantaire was flushed high on his cheekbones, fingers still cradling a bottle, and it made Enjolras’ chest clench with a burst of something that was just the wrong side of painful.

_Had he upset him that much? Éponine (and, indeed, Combeferre) would be so angry. Worse than that, he was angry with himself. Grantaire was meant to be **his friend** , wasn’t he? It was just a shame that Enjolras didn’t know how to be a proper friend to him. **He** might see the admonishments as encouragement to fulfil his vast potential, but from what Éponine had said, Grantaire sure as hell didn’t see it that way._

Enjolras looked up from staring into his lime and soda mulishly to see the very man he’d been worrying about sidling up to a furiously blushing Combeferre and Éponine, who was smiling weakly but shooting daggers at Jehan who was grinning and waving from the other side of the room, in between making out with Courfeyrac on the sofa. Combeferre and Éponine were dancing, the very picture of discomfort and grace in one, when Grantaire stumbled towards them, saying something probably quite suggestive if the quirk of his mouth and the increased colour on Combeferre’s cheeks was anything to go by. 

Combeferre gently motioned for him to go and sit down, murmuring something to him that Enjolras couldn’t hear, and taking the bottle from out of his hands, lead him back over to the bar. 

“Enjolras, would you...?” Combeferre asked, eyes ending the sentence when his words could not. _Combeferre wanted him to keep Grantaire occupied whilst he danced with Éponine? It seems Grantaire had been correct about where Combeferre’s affections seemed to lie._

Enjolras just pouted at him, and with a curt nod helped Grantaire to a seat. _Combeferre owed him so much._

“Thanks,” he murmured, slurring a little. “You don’t have to do this ‘Pollo. I’m jus’ fiiiiine.”

“Right, but you won’t mind sitting with me for a bit, right, Grantaire?” Enjolras smiled, a little panicked. Combeferre smiled at him gratefully from where he was trying to dance with Éponine.

“Wha-? No, no, course not, ‘Pollo.” Grantaire grinned sloppily, staring at him earnestly to check that Enjolras was being serious before sitting down. Enjolras’ stomach flipped slightly. 

_It wasn’t like he’d not seen him drunk before but, he’d looked so unguarded then. Enjolras could see the doubt and the desire to please and he suddenly hated this openness. He hated that he had this sort of effect on Grantaire: someone so steadfast and stringent in his views; reduced to a malleable lump when set in front of Enjolras. It was Grantaire’s parents, he knew, that had done this to their son – tried to force him to conform for so long, and ostracised him so completely when he hadn’t – that made him so desperate to please Enjolras now. He had seen him for all his flaws for far too long, and could hardly be helped for wanting the self-destruction to stop – but at the price of Grantaire’s intelligence, his bluntness, his character, even his cynicism? No. Enjolras wasn’t going to allow him to cut away any part of himself, for him._

“Are you having fun?” Enjolras asked, uncomfortable with the swooping sensation in his stomach that came with his realisation.

“Mmf,” Grantaire agreed, “but no one wants to dance with me anymorrrre, Apollo,” he whined, lurching much too close to Enjolras.

“I think you’ve done enough dancing, R, and drinking, for that matter.” Enjolras said gently, leaning away from the sharp tang of alcohol on Grantaire's breath, trying not to feel too disgusted. _It's his choice. He's well within his rights. It's his choice,_ he told himself steadily.

“I know,” he frowned, looking suddenly regretful, “’Ponine said I wasn’t to drink too much tonight. Sh-she didn’t want me to ‘t’all, you know ‘Pollo, but I said I couldn’t do that.”

“Couldn’t? Why?”

“’S difficult, isn’t it? Stopping dr-drinking. You mus’ know that, Apollo, what with your addic-addictshun things that you do,” he muttered.

_Oh, shit. And there Éponine’s warning, the sharp looks, Grantaire's shaking hands, and Les Amis’ panic at all his recent exploits fell into place. Was he drinking that much at home alone and outside of visits to the Corinthe too? Enjolras had just naively assumed Grantaire was one hell of a social drinker._

“I, yeah, sure. I know. It must, uh – must be difficult. Do you actually, uh, want to stop drinking, R?” he asked, concernedly. _He’d be right. He’d been right, that night when he tried to ring Grantaire to apologise – and not only had he not helped him, Éponine also seemed to think he exacerbated the drinking somewhat - shit!_

“Hm? Dunno, Apollo. Think that me and Ép would be less h-hard up, if I did. Then maybe she could st-stop taking things and maybe if I stopped drinking you would be happy because I wouldn’t be interrupt, interrupting your m- saving the world.”

“Don’t worry about me, R. You should do it because you w-”

“Bu’ I always worry ‘bout you, Apollo. When that guy was kicking you-” Grantaire screwed up his eyebrows in a drunken approximation of anger, “I was so angry. He didn’t have any r-right to touch you. You don’t kick jus’ someone cos they’re down. I’m just... sorry that I got you involved when you wanted to be all pacifist-y and shit though.”

Enjolras felt as if he’d had the wind knocked from him. _Had he really been so cruel to this man?_ “I – I’ll get you some water. Might help you have less of a hangover in the morning,” he mumbled. The barman seemed to grumble slightly as he handed over a pint of tap water, but Grantaire took it from Enjolras carefully, his eyes full of gratitude that he knew he didn’t deserve. 

“Thanks, ‘Pollo,” he smiled brightly. 

_He wasn’t helpless – anything but! He was probably one of the strongest people that Enjolras knew, if the snippets of information that Éponine divulged were anything to go by - and yet his self-esteem seemed to be shot to pieces by being consistently let down by those close to him. Éponine seemed to be the only person that Grantaire kept in touch with since before university, and Enjolras remembered how guarded Grantaire had been around them about his life before meeting Les Amis to begin with. It was only through Éponine that Les Amis knew anything about the pair at all._

“It’s fine, R. And, if you’re serious about giving up the drinking, then I promise I’ll be here to help you with it.”

“You, you’re busy with the cause, Enjolras. I don’t wanna distract you from your causes or the,” he seemed to struggle for the right word, “the oppressed or whatever it is you’re doing now.”

“You are no less important than anyone else, Grantaire. You’re my friend and I want to help you, if you’re comfortable with it. I know you think I take delight in shouting at you, but I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy and,” it was Enjolras’ turn to struggle for words, “I just know you could be even better than you are right now – you could contribute so much! – but, I don’t want anything from you that you are not one hundred percent willing to give. Like I said earlier, you do not owe me anything,” Enjolras told him gravely.

Grantaire leant over and gripped Enjolras’ forearm. Enjolras refrained from jerking away from his touch, and was surprised to feel almost at ease with it – unlike how he felt with many of his overly tactile friends. 

“I would give you anything it was within my power to give,” Grantaire told him, suddenly solemn in his drunkenness, “I might not believe in your causes, ‘Pollo, but I d-definitely believe in you.”

“Grantaire, I-” Enjolras stumbled over the words. _What could he say to that?!_

He was saved then, by the gentle manners of his best friend: “Time to go home, I think, huh, R?” Combeferre said calmly, pressing a hand to his shoulder.

Enjolras turned to see them both stood behind them, _(hopefully they really hadn’t been there long!)_ Éponine with her lips pursed and her high-heels dangling from her fingers and Combeferre still flushed from dancing. His responsible voice had returned and his glasses were pushed resolutely back up the bridge of his nose, but Enjolras could still see the slightly unfocussed quality in his warm brown eyes. _As long as he didn’t feel the need to keep on about it like Marius sometimes did, then Enjolras supposed he could stand Combeferre’s apparent affection for Éponine. She was a good person, beneath the fierce exterior. A diamond in the rough, as it were._

“Yes, I think we should definitely be going, R,” Éponine told him, slipping her feet back into her high heels with a slight wince.

“Let me call you a cab or something,” Combeferre said. _Enjolras tried not to think sourly – it was okay as long as it didn’t affect his ability to contribute to the cause. The hypocrisy of these thoughts and what he’d promised Grantaire was not lost on him._

_Grantaire wasn’t some crush though. Grantaire was a friend in need._

It wasn’t until Grantaire and Éponine were safely bundled into a cab that Enjolras began to wonder whether he’d ever be able to deliver on what he’d promised Grantaire, and indeed, whether Grantaire would even remember what he’d said, or if their bizarre, reconciling conversation was for nothing. 

_Enjolras hoped fervently that he’d remember. It was possibly one of the few conversations where they’d both left feeling on an even footing and neither party was angry, upset or feeling regretful. He hoped it would continue, and preferably, whilst Grantaire was sober. It was strange to see candidness and sensitivity beneath the bravado, irritating manners and cynicism. Enjolras knew he displayed this sort of openness with some of the other Amis, but it was the first time he himself had been privy to it. What had changed? Was it merely because Grantaire had been drinking a lot?_

_Enjolras usually tried to avoid conversing with Grantaire when he was drunk, assuming he’d just be louder, coarser and more sensational in his nihilistic outlook. He wasn’t going to deal with Grantaire’s ridiculous opinions (“which he is more than entitled to. Everyone is entitled to voice their own opinion,” Combeferre’s voice reminded him) and especially not if he was just going to mock him and breathe whiskey fumes in his face._

_It seems he had been wrong about that too, on this occasion. Was there anything about Grantaire that wasn’t utterly bewildering and conflicting?_

_Who knew what this man could be when his blood content wasn’t mostly alcohol?_

_Enjolras hoped Grantaire was strong enough, and Les Amis were supportive enough, to find out. He was determined to be there for Grantaire. Courfeyrac hadn’t been lying when he said he always treated him differently (meaning: worse) from the other Amis, but he’d never realised before how much that seemed to affect Grantaire. He was just going to have to put their conflicting opinions to one side and show support; a show of solidarity might help Grantaire during this difficult time._

Enjolras smiled at the plans already forming in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in conclusion, Enjolras is an emotionally constipated little fool, but at least he's well-meaning.
> 
> ~The quotes that Grantaire and Enjolras aim at each other~: 
> 
> "The power of accurate observation is commonly called cynicism by those who haven't got it." - George Bernard Shaw
> 
> "Scratch any cynic and you will find a disappointed idealist." - George Carlin. 
> 
> The Bernard Shaw quote - which is, coincidentally, on my maths room wall at college - together with listening to too much Frank Turner, resulted in this fic in the first place. So if you want to blame anyone, blame George Bernard Shaw and Frank Turner. ;)


	5. R

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He’d disappointed his friends and told the man he was in love with about his drink problem and essentially confessed his affection in the most appalling and circumnavigating way possible. He was a fucking mess, and not a hot one, at that."
> 
> In which Enjolras does a Very Bad Thing, Grantaire's withdrawal gets a hell of a lot worse, and Éponine and Combeferre are left to pick up the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not quite as long as the others and for that, I'm sorry. I had a bit of difficulty writing it, and that wasn't helped by the fact that I was away from my beloved laptop for a good few weeks. 
> 
> The relationship here is getting progressively more fucked up, the bad language is increasing and there are more references to alcoholism, drugs, and even a little bit of self-harm and such, hence the increased rating. I hope that doesn't put you off too much! 
> 
> I never intended it to be this angsty - I genuinely was planning something light and fluffy when I began this, but this has just got beyond me now. As ever, I have no beta and any mistakes are my own and I'd love you forever if you'd point them out or leave constructive criticism, comments, kudos or whatever in my comments! 
> 
> Any views expressed aren't necessarily my own and all characters are the property of Victor Hugo. 
> 
> As a warning, drugs are mentioned, as is lots of alcohol, withdrawal, blood, family conflict, general conflict, unhealthy dynamics regarding the E/R "friendship" and some dodgy medical practitioning. 
> 
> I'm getting progressively more annoyed the more angsty this gets. There will be love and reconciliation soon - I promise!

For the second time in almost as many days, Grantaire awoke with a headache and a feeling of extraordinary shame. 

Éponine and he had agreed _two fucking drinks_ and he was going to stick to that. He had every intention of sticking to that. He knew exactly when that intention had changed.

Enjolras had looked at him coldly - a little shocked, with a brief flickering of disgust - as he danced with Éponine. They were best friends - there was nothing untoward going on at all there _(despite them both considering it when horrifically drunk and craving the affection they knew the men in their lives would never give to them)_ \- Grantaire had only had one beer; he wasn’t being rude, cynical, sceptical, loud or distracting. There was no earthly reason for Enjolras to be angry with him for what he was doing in particular, so it only left the option that Grantaire had always considered to be a part of the issue, despite his friends always assuring him he was wrong: Grantaire was difficult to like. There was something about him that Enjolras could not abide, and no matter what he did, that wouldn’t change.

Stopping drinking wasn’t going to change anything. Enjolras wasn’t going to see him sober and clean and put together and realise beneath the drunken fool, there had been, the whole time, a perfectly respectable, interesting, clever man. Grantaire knew he wasn’t handsome, and a lack of bloodshot eyes and dark shadows and the look of slight emaciation that he got when he was at his worst wouldn’t help with that. His hair was ragged and his cheeks were darkened with stubble and he was slightly too short to be considered attractive. He had tattoos he could barely remember getting, and his clothes were all thin and worn and faded. 

He wanted Enjolras in part because he was all outward respectability and righteousness and lucidity. He was beautiful and bright and glorious. He was slim in the right way, lithe and tall and strong. Everything he wore seemed to emphasise his good looks, and yet he did it with such an easy charm that it seemed he barely tried to stun - it just happened to be a happy side effect. Grantaire had never wanted anyone with such intensity in his life. Admissions of feeling to anyone in his past paled in comparison. Any vocalisation of “I love you” died on his tongue – maybe he’d meant it at the time, to every beautiful woman he’d lain next to and every man he’d fumbled with in the backs of clubs away from his father’s disapproval, often drunk or high or both on the feeling of being wanted and how desperate and wrong and rebellious and _right_ it all felt. That was nothing in comparison to this.

 _And that,_ Grantaire told himself, _was why he said what he had._

He adored and idolised and craved him, and in return, Enjolras disdained and disapproved of everything he did and said and symbolised. _He was debauchery and laziness and lack of control and addiction and scepticism and rudeness and unreliability, all rolled into one, to Enjolras._ So when he looked at him so earnestly and began a conversation which didn’t seem to be too judging or minutes from devolving into a screaming match, Grantaire was thrown into tailspin.

He genuinely seemed to want to learn about Grantaire ( _But why?_ His brain had screamed) and Grantaire couldn’t stand it. _He couldn’t do this to him. It wasn’t fair. His heart was beating over-time and the only words that fell from his lips were dismissive and this wasn’t what he wanted to say, dammit! This wasn’t right!_

Enjolras didn’t know he did art. 

He didn’t know the most fundamental things about him – his art and his alcoholism _(Éponine and Jehan would argue those weren’t the fundamental things at all and he was **so much more,** but that was beside the point)_ and he didn’t know about Enjolras’ family or past or preferences in food or films or anything. He didn’t even know his sexuality. He tried to tell himself desperately that they were probably utterly wrong for one another, but that didn’t stop Grantaire wanting him. _Death itself probably wouldn’t stop Grantaire loving Enjolras now. He was much too far gone to ever be saved._

 _It wasn’t fair._ Enjolras had looked concernedly at him, his eyes widening, and Grantaire drowned in the grey-blue of his irises. _How a man could be so oblivious and yet so intelligent, determined and inspiring, Grantaire had no idea._

 _How could he make him ricochet from feeling to feeling like that? Shame to derision to submission to openness to what? He knew what he had said._ Éponine had made sure to inform him that the next morning, and that was enough to make him want to reach for another beer. _At least he’d stuck to beer the night before. So what if he’d drank over twelve? At least it wasn’t spirits,_ he’d told a disappointed Éponine, like that made a scrap of difference. 

_He’d disappointed his friends and told the man he was in love with about his drink problem and essentially confessed his affection in the most appalling and circumnavigating way possible. He was a fucking mess, and not a hot one, at that. What on earth could Enjolras be thinking of him now?_

\-- 

Éponine had another shift in the cafe that evening, and Jehan had been charged as official “regulator of alcohol.” As it turned out, Jehan needn’t have worried about Grantaire’s drinking during the meeting. 

Jehan and Grantaire arrived about ten minutes after the meeting was scheduled to start, in part because of habit (Enjolras _hated_ Grantaire to be late – considering it a disruption to the others - and it ensured a good ten minutes of burning under Enjolras’ heated words, bathed in light and momentarily feeling whole as Enjolras argued and gave him as good as he got, like he considered him an equal, even in the face of this adversity. The rest of the time he was ignored and judged and disdained – looked down upon and _patronised_ and barely given the time of day) and in part because it took some time for Jehan to convince him that he could ever look Enjolras in the face ever again.

_Jehan **really** needn’t have worried about the drinking._

As they walked in, the hum of conversation stopped for a moment. Combeferre looked up from where he was amending Enjolras’ speech, and Courfeyrac even hesitated before skipping over to Jehan and kissing him soundly. Joly looked one step away from a full-blown panic attack, and Bossuet was shooting Musichetta panicked warning looks from where she stood behind the bar. Feuilly was looking at Grantaire like he was seeing him for the first time, all concern and wonder. There was something going on. Something was inherently wrong with this. Everyone seemed desperate to appear like nothing had changed, but even Grantaire, shaking and trying to ignore his splitting headache and dry mouth _(he needed a drink... he really needed a drink...)_ saw that something was wrong. 

It wasn’t until he looked at Bahorel, saw what was on the beer mat in front of him, and saw Enjolras’ expression of muted pride that it all clicked together. Everyone in the room was drinking _fucking coffee!_ He skimmed around. Every _fucking person, every one of his friends_ was drinking coffee! Musichetta had taken his favourite whiskey off the damn shelf in an attempt to quell his temptation. _That fucker! He’d told them?_

Jehan’s eyes widened with dismay as he slowly noticed the change too. “You didn’t...?” he whimpered in horror, looking right at Enjolras.

Enjolras’ smile slowly fell and he looked at Grantaire with a disappointment that Grantaire could hardly stand. _He was not a fucking child! He didn’t need to be patronised! He didn’t need saving! He didn’t need anyone’s help and especially not an over-privileged beautiful bastard who made it his personal mission to mess with Grantaire’s feelings so spectacularly._

“Fuck you, Enjolras,” Grantaire muttered, and turned on his heel, walking out of the Musain, hands shaking even more violently that before. _It wasn’t meant to be public knowledge. How could he? The bastard!_

He thought he heard Combeferre say “I’d go after him and apologise,” quietly to Enjolras as he fled. _Like a simple apology would make this okay. Enjolras had revealed something he’d admitted in a moment of drunken stupidity to all their friends in an attempt to make some ridiculous statement. A simple insincere apology wasn’t going to suffice in this case – much like when he’d shouted at Grantaire to “leave if you can’t contribute anything and only wish to mock and drag us down with your pessimism and cynicism, then go!” And that had ended so well too: going on a bender which ended with pills, enough drink to knock out Bahorel or a rhino (and sometimes they were the same kind of thing), and sleeping on a stranger’s sofa._

His whole body was shaking and he felt desperately sick. He couldn’t vomit. He wouldn’t vomit. Not in front of Enjolras. _He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t. He was. He really was._

Enjolras found him sat on the step leading to the alleyway, hands pressed to his temples, trembling and looking beyond humiliated and angry. _Argh – go away! Could he not take the fucking hint?_

Enjolras’ hair was a bit dishevelled and Grantaire eyed him running his hands through it anxiously as he perched on the step next to him, a little nervously.

“Get away from me, Apollo.” Grantaire whispered venomously. 

“Grantaire, I was trying to help,” Enjolras began. 

“Oh yeah? In what way was that helping?” 

“I thought if everyone stopped drinking you wouldn’t feel out of place and thus less tempted because alcohol wouldn’t be all around you.” 

“Oh right? And you didn’t think how fucking humiliating and patronising it is to get all of my friends to do that for me when I told you _one fucking thing in confidence, accidentally, whilst drunk,_ and you take that shit as bloody... gospel and just, cajole all my friends into-” Grantaire was clenching his hands so hard, too angry to even finish the sentence, “do you even understand? I looked weak. I looked unbearably weak. This was a fucking secret. Éponine, Jehan and I. That was it, regarding who I felt comfortable with knowing, and you know what? Fuck you, Enjolras. I can’t believe you. You told all my fucking friends. How am I meant to even face them now?” His nails dug painfully into his palms in an attempt to stop his hands from shaking, and potentially planting a fist into Enjolras’ pretty face.

Enjolras eyes were earnest and somehow that made Grantaire even more furious. “They don’t think you’re weak, Grantaire. Addiction is a difficult topic to broach and I understand that-” 

“No, Apollo. You don’t understand. You don’t have a fucking clue. You want to be seen to be understanding, to be helpful, to be inclusive – but that’s all it fucking is! A façade! You just wanted another cause. I wonder if you can work this into the ABC publicity material somehow? “Les Amis de l’ABC stand with one of their number through a difficult time in his addiction.” Oh yeah. That would cause one hell of a splash! I can see why you did it, Enjolras, but _I am not one of your fucking causes!_ You leave me out of this. You know as well as I do that I don’t belong here. I’m not like the rest of you. I don’t believe in _anything_ that you’re trying to achieve here.” 

“But you said-”

“I don’t give a flying fuck what I said, Apollo, and I don’t care much for whatever ridiculous explanation is going to drip from your silver tongue either. I am not one of your causes. I am not broken. I do not need fixing, and especially not by you. You care nothing for me, and I... I care nothing for you,” he hated the way his voice wavered at the lie, “please, just leave me alone.” 

“Grantaire, I...” Grantaire’s heart clenched painfully as he heard the tinge of dejection to Enjolras’ voice, “I’m... I’m sorry Grantaire. I really didn’t realise, but I promise you this wasn’t some selfish thing-” Enjolras tried again, standing up. 

Grantaire sighed; the heat of his anger was deserting him now but leaving a tidemark of bitterness and hopelessness in its wake. “That’s exactly what it is, Apollo,” he muttered tonelessly. “Everyone is selfish – even you! You want to be remembered – a martyr for the cause. You want a national holiday commemorating you, for you to be taught in every history class as the man who freed the oppressed, liberated the masses and fought for our rights. You want the satisfaction of telling people who doubt you that _you do care,_ and here’s the proof – you helped the hopeless drunk in the group get over his addiction. _How selfless and inspiring is that?_ No. Don’t think you’re any less selfish than anyone else, Apollo.” 

The hurt in Enjolras’ eyes turned stony and brittle. “You’re wrong, Grantaire. You’ve always been wrong.”

“That I know, Apollo. I’m not right for anything – you say it often enough. Now if you’d excuse me, go the fuck back inside and give whatever poncy speech you were going to give on Alcoholics Anonymous or y’know, whatever the hell else, and leave me alone.” 

Enjolras looked at him for one moment longer, eyes matte with fossilised anger which gave way to something like ashamedness, _if gods could feel such a thing_ : “I don’t ever mean to hurt you, or anyone else.” 

“And yet, and yet, Enjolras.” Grantaire muttered, and turned away.

Grantaire waited before he heard the door slam before he put his head in his hands, pulled his hair in sheer frustration, hands trembling and sweat prickling his neck and chest. _He needed him. He needed to get away from him. He needed a drink. He needed. He didn’t know what he needed. Oh god. Oh god._

Grantaire threw up into the alleyway, and his shame burned on the way back up, just like the beers.

\--

“You’re fucking kidding!” Éponine demanded angrily, carding her hand through her tangled hair.

“Nope, not kidding. Even my pessimistic, doom-mongering imagination couldn’t have conjured this one up.” Grantaire sighed, paint-splattered fingers shakily pressed onto his eyelids – the coolness giving some respite from the feverous restlessness he was trying hard not to display.

“So he just... told them? And so everyone was just sat drinking coffee and he didn’t even... acknowledge that what he’d done was an issue?” Éponine looked furious, despite her bone-tiredness and smudged make-up. 

“He did apologise...” Grantaire allowed, desperately trying to ignore his mounting headache.

“Whoop-dee-doo! The almighty Enjolras deigned to say sorry for acting like a massive arsehole, which is what any halfway decent person would have done. Great to know.” Éponine said angrily, and Grantaire opened his eyes to look at her - her bitter, pained expression, a slightly too big uniform, hair tangled, make-up smudged and looking all too much like the weight of the world was on her back. _A female Atlas._ The light felt like a thousand pinpricks to his tender eyes but the fierce expression on Éponine’s face hurt more. _Could she not see he didn’t owe Grantaire anything at all? He was a non-believer who riled Enjolras’ flock, and he would have been quite within his rights to kick him out the first time they’d ever met. He didn’t though. He let him stay, and maybe they weren’t close, and maybe they weren’t friends and maybe they’d never managed to nail civility, but he’d let him stay._

“Why did you even tell him? Jesus Christ, you told me to keep it to myself – do you know how fucking difficult that is? – to deal with the fact you might find your best friend in a drunken stupor or beaten up or choking on his own vomit every time you open the door to your flat? I kept it a secret – I’ve been keeping it a secret for about 18 months, Grantaire – because you didn’t want the others to know! What made you tell him?” Éponine asked with an incredulous bitterness.

“I- I can’t explain. He just, looked like he cared, and it just... came out.” Grantaire mumbled. His tongue felt dry and too big for his mouth. _How did his skin hurt this much?_

“We _all_ bloody _care_ , Grantaire! Combeferre and Joly would _care_ – the one man who has never shown you any real compassion, ever, because you’re always bloody _arguing_ , and the first time he seems to give a shit, _which everyone else has been doing all along_ , and you spill your soul to him.” 

“I know,” Grantaire muttered miserably, feeling his fingertips tremble against his fluttering eyelids. He felt much too hot and dizzy for how damn cold and shitty he knew their flat was. “’S’it hot in here?” he murmured.

“No, it’s fucking freezing, like usual,” Éponine said harshly, before her expression melted into something more sympathetic. “Hey, Grantaire, are you okay? Can you look at me?”

Grantaire blearily opened his eyes and saw Éponine looking concernedly down at him. She pressed a hand to his forehead, and ripped it away again like she’d been burned.

“Shit, you’re burning up there, R. I’m gonna call Combeferre.” 

“No, no, ‘Ponine. ‘M fine. Jus’ fine. Please don’t call ‘Ferre.”

He could feel sweat beading his forehead and upper lip and tried to keep from trembling even more violently. _He didn’t want Combeferre (or anyone else) to see this, to see this vulnerability, this weakness. Enjolras had already given them the bullseye, the very place to hit, his Achilles heel, the fleshy parts beneath his shell, and he couldn’t open himself up to anyone but Éponine in this state._

“R, please. Keep your eyes open. What’s wrong? What hurts?” 

“Eyes, head, skin – I’m so hot. My tongue. I’m so thirsty, please, ‘Ponine.”

Éponine grasped immediately what drink he was talking about and frowned slowly. “You’ve been doing so well though, Grantaire. Not a drop in fourteen hours!”

His body shook even more at the thought, and a bolt of pain shot through one temple. 

“Éponine,” Grantaire all but panted, “I can’t do this. I thought I could and I can’t. It hurts so much. My head – please ‘Ponine!”

“Hold on, I’m going to get you some water and something to bring down the fever and then I’m calling Combeferre unless the tablets start kicking in and you feel alright, okay?”

“’Kay.” Grantaire muttered, pitching forward onto the sofa weakly, still in his shoes.

\--

At some point in the following hours, Grantaire was aware of Éponine hovering nervously beside him, cradling his head tenderly and helping him take painkillers and water. He drifted in and out of restless, hot, delirium-driven sleep, characterised by dreams that he wasn’t sure meant he was awake or not. 

_He felt his limbs thrashing distantly, and Éponine’s terrified voice on the phone. That, perhaps, was awake. The reality with his father pressing nettles to his skin with a terrible smile and Grantaire screaming might be awake too though. The hot sensitivity of his skin felt real enough. He really had no idea. Apollo certainly couldn’t be here, though Combeferre might be. There were pills, medicines and a syringe, and so much blood and sweat. Grantaire abstractedly hoped they didn’t see the faint track marks in the bend of his elbow and the pale scars streaking his wrists, if this were indeed real._

_His whole body seemed to be covered in blood. There was so much red. Blood or wine? Grantaire hoped it was wine. He was so thirsty. The smell was heady; he could almost taste the red, staining liquid, imagined it on his lips, but when he drank, taking a deep and luscious draft, it tasted like nothing but salt and iron and sweat and blood._

_There were scars on his arms and they seemed to bleed through the tattoos – faint white marks on his sticky, stained skin. There was a cool hand in his and he screamed again at how icy it felt. Why was he touching a corpse? Who had he hurt? Who had he brought down to his own personal depths of Tartarus? The skin was bronzed and around the nails it was ragged and chewed. Éponine? He was flooded with more horror than he’d ever known. Éponine was his best friend! What had he done? Her hand was flexing spasmodically and Grantaire screamed again. Was this her muscles fitfully contracting in rigor mortis? What had he done?_

_The next time he slipped into dreaming, it was so bright – why had a spotlight been placed in front of him? No one wanted him. He should be in shadow. It was Apollo who deserved the light. The clinical whiteness flooded his skull and made him tear at his own hair, his whole body wet with sweat or blood._

_A soothing hand stroked his curls but as Éponine’s relieved eyes met his, they slowly turned disappointed and from brown to grey. The hair shortened and curled and became a gilded halo._

_Grantaire melted under his gaze and shuffled up towards him, nudging his hand the way a cat might. “Enough! Do you truly think yourself worthy of this?” The familiar voice asked._

_“No, no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”_

_“The interest you harbour is immoral and desecrating – you would have this, if you could. Do you have no shame?”_

_The hand twirled the curls through his fingers and Grantaire was careful not to butt against it, careful not to move at all._

_“I know, I know. I can’t help it.”_

_“You can’t help it? You can’t control yourself? What are you – a man or a beast?”_

_The hand tightened in his hair and his scalp erupted in shivers – of pain or fear or lust, he wasn’t sure._

_Grantaire thrashed his head side to side, “No, no no no no!”_

_“You think you could ever deserve this?”_

_“No, never, I – I-”_

_“You **what?** ”_

_“I need this. I need it.”_

_The grip loosened and Grantaire gasped._

_“You don’t deserve it.”_

_The hand stroked his curls and Grantaire was thrown by the affectionate gesture. What was going on? Why was he doing this?_

_“I know, I know,” Grantaire all but sobbed, “but please. Please. I need this.”_

_The hand left his hair with one last fierce tug that all but split his sensitive head in two with a pain like a gunshot, and Grantaire let out a whimpered cry, feeling blood on his tongue as he bit down, before blacking out entirely._

\-- 

He awoke to voices in the doorway. 

“How is he?” A familiar male voice asked mildly.

“Seems better. His fever has gone down a bit, and he’s not thrashing around and screaming anymore,” Éponine confirmed.

Grantaire opened his eyes a crack, and pinched his arm. _Real._

“Good. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for the last couple of hours.” The voice sounded apologetic, and it matched the blurry sandy-haired figure in the doorway.

“Combeferre, please, _even you_ need sleep. It’s been two days. Even you can’t hold out that long! You let me get some sleep; it’s only fair!”

“And did you sleep at all?” Combeferre teased, gently brushing his thumb over the dark shadow under Éponine’s left eye.

Éponine blushed and dropped her gaze, and Combeferre tore his hand away, muttering his apologies.

“A little,” she conceded, “but not much. I was worried.”

“Everyone was. I thought Joly was going to have a conniption. Bahorel looked about thirty seconds from breaking down the door when I said that everyone shouldn’t come in because he’d hate to be seen like this and needed some space. To be fair, Enjolras looked about one second away from helping him.”

Éponine’s eyes must have gotten cold at the mention of Enjolras, because Combeferre’s sigh could be heard even from Grantaire’s place on the sofa. 

“I know you don’t like him, but he’s my best friend.”

“And Grantaire is mine.” Éponine stated coldly.

“Fair point,” Combeferre allowed, “and yet he’s not a bad person. Misguided when comes to social conventions, _yes_ , capable of being cruel, _yes_ , overly focussed on changing the world and forgetting his friends and sleep and food, _yes_ – but not a bad person.”

“So everyone keeps telling me. I don’t need this from you. Grantaire sings his praises more than often enough for me.”

Grantaire winced and felt his cheeks heat at that. 

“He’s been feeling completely awful about the whole situation, Éponine. I don’t really understand it. I’ve not seen him like his before, and I’ve known him since we were both tiny. I really am not sure what is going on, but I know he’s not going to tell me until he’s ready.”

“When you know...?” Éponine left the question hanging there.

“Depends on the confidentiality required. I’m not going to be breaking anyone’s trust, Éponine. Not even for you,” Combeferre smiled gently.

Éponine’s cheeks seemed to flare up again, and she looked a little uncomfortable.

Grantaire, _like the fucking good friend he was_ , chose this moment to pretend to stir. 

“Mmnnfh,” he turned over and opened his sticky eyes slowly, as if rousing from a deep sleep.

“Grantaire!” Éponine all but cried, and strode towards him, smiling. 

“Shh, shh. Not so loud,” Combeferre reminded her, “he’s likely to have one hell of a headache.” 

“No fucking kidding,” Grantaire mumbled as he pushed the covers away from where they crowded around his shoulders and massaged his head slowly. “So what’s been going on? I feel like shit.”

“Hm, not much. Lot of screaming, shaking, mumbling weird shit, thrashing about, fever, sweating, shouting about corpses and blood and needing something and generally scaring me to death,” Éponine said sarcastically, but the relief was clear on her face. Her voice wavered and she seemed to want to sit down and hug Grantaire, but also like she was afraid to touch. 

“C’mere,” Grantaire murmured and pulled her down to him, “I’m sorry I scared you.” He buried his face in her hair, which smelt like coffee and her shampoo. In contrast, he knew he must stink of sweat, and whispered as much in her ear, apologising. Éponine just laughed and pretended to hold her nose. She looked frantic with relief – a look Grantaire never thought he’d see on her normally impassive face – and he smiled reassuringly at her. 

“What Éponine means,” Combeferre mumbled, twisting the bottom of his jumper in his hands nervously, “is _alcoholic hallucinosis_ , coupled with the normal symptoms of trembling, shaking, sweating, headaches, and somehow – _you idiot!_ – dehydration. When did you last eat or drink something? You need to keep your strength up – doctor’s orders! Bahorel says he wants you for boxing soon, so you better get some food and drink inside you or else he’ll definitely beat you.”

Grantaire laughed at that. “He might have to wait a while. I can’t imagine I’m going to be okay for boxing for a bit!”

Combeferre smiled kindly, “No, perhaps not. I have something for you by the way, and I know you’re going to hate this, but Joly made me promise. It was this or he was going to shin up the drainpipe and come and fuss over you himself.” 

“I get it. Bring in the piles of medical books slash information pamphlets slash website addresses for rehab centres or detox clinics. Bring it on, Combeferre. I am ready for the onslaught of facts and figures and scary data. Alas - such a shame the sciences and mathematics were never my thing!” Grantaire pretended to swoon back onto the sofa, the back of his hand against his forehead and his eyes fluttering shut.

“How did you know...?” Combeferre began, but Éponine just bit her lip to stop herself from giggling, and Grantaire rolled his eyes from where he lay back on the sofa.

“Point taken,” Combeferre admitted, and dropped a pile of books, leaflets, pamphlets, sticky notes, textbooks, journals and pens onto the rickety coffee table by Grantaire’s head with a thud. 

“Joly says you must read through at least 3 pamphlets before he is satisfied,” Combeferre relayed, and Grantaire smiled at the thought of Joly solemnly telling Combeferre that. 

“Gotcha. It looks riveting reading, I must say!”

“Yes, but please consider it, Grantaire.”

“Yes, Doctor. But I think you’re all overreacting. I don’t want anyone else to know about this or get involved. _Hell_ , I didn’t even want _you_ to know - no offense! Can’t I deal with this alone?” Grantaire said pointedly.

“None taken,” Combeferre assured him gently.

“Oh, like you did the last two days?” Éponine asked sweetly, rolling her eyes.

“Éponine is right, Grantaire, as much as you loath to admit that. For a good while I thought we had a case of DTs on our hands and was literally about to bundle you into the car and to the hospital when you started cooling down and thrashing and screaming less. You can’t do this alone. We need to involve medical professionals or something. As much as I don’t mind helping you, Grantaire, I did miss several lectures, as did Éponine, and she missed a shift in the cafe too. I don’t want to make you feel guilty-” 

“But alas!” Grantaire muttered sarcastically.

“But we can’t do that again. I’ve not been home in two days, and I’m afraid Enjolras may actually be a skeleton on his desk chair, halfway through writing a speech by now!” Combeferre chuckled slightly. 

Grantaire pursed his lips.

“It’s going to be tough, okay? Read the pamphlets. Any problems of any kind at any time, ring me or Joly, alright? This isn’t over, we might have episodes like this again, relapse is common and we’re taking our time, okay? One step at a time. We’re all here for you if you need us, Grantaire. Don’t forget that. We all care about you, and we want you to be okay.”

“Okay,” Grantaire mumbled meekly, turning his face to the ground to stop it from being clear how much Combeferre’s words of kindness were affecting him.

“Alright, see you, Grantaire, Éponine! Ring me if you need anything,” and Grantaire watched as Éponine walked him to the door.

Grantaire’s shoulders were shuddering by the time Éponine got back.

“R, what’s wrong?” 

He sniffed and looked up at her. 

“I just... can’t fuck up again. W-what Combeferre said – I, I don’t want to be like that, Éponine. I can’t be like this anymore. I just need to ... function properly. I need the drink, Ép, I actively need it to be alright, and that shouldn’t be the case.”

“No, but he said this was a slow thing. You can’t just stop entirely. You have to wean yourself off slowly. Do you know what the shock of just stopping can do to your heart and brain and stuff?”

“I just don’t want to be a fuck-up anymore, Éponine.” 

“Grantaire, you are not a fuck-up.” 

“I’m an alcoholic, bisexual, failing art student who is estranged from his family. Please, where am I not fucking up?” he said, desperately trying to inject humour into a voice so bitter it turned his stomach. 

“You are an amazing friend, your talents are out of this world and you love so strongly and loyally that it’s almost scary. Being bisexual is not a bad thing. You know that! You don’t judge Courf for his sexuality so why do you judge yourself for it? You do some of the best art I’ve ever seen, even when it’s just a pencil sketch of Enjolras – it’s beautiful. Your family don’t mean shit if they can’t accept you for the way you are, Grantaire. You’re my best friend, R, and if you make me go all mushy one more fucking time I’ll brain you and then we won’t have to worry about tremors and shit, okay?” Éponine said, hugging him fiercely. 

“Alright, I’m sorry, Ép. I know I scared you. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay. We’re going to be just fine. I know we will be.”

Grantaire squeezed back just as hard, and smiled into her hair, happy in the warm embrace, but somewhere, in the recesses of his mind, wondering what it would be like to press his face into a set of shorter, much lighter, curls. 

_He was truly fucked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have guessed, I have no experience of withdrawal symptoms, and all that was written was thanks to a bit of internet research and creative liberty. If anything is blatantly wrong/offensive/ridiculous DO NOT HESITATE TO SAY and I will try to correct it. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	6. E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He couldn’t stop himself, his tongue shaping unwelcome words, running on and on, and Grantaire’s replies were always just as sharp, just as splintery – right up until the point where he looked like he’d been cut open, and all the hurt bled into his blue, incredibly blue, eyes."
> 
> In which Enjolras has a lot to think about, Les Amis are incredibly nervy, and Combeferre might actually be a saint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken so long with this! I'm so sorry! I've been busy and away from my laptop so much you wouldn't believe, but I've tried to get this up as quickly as I can. This was a bit of a shit to write because a) Enjolras is not my ~baby~ like Grantaire seems to be and b) randomly long chapter.
> 
> Because of this, there might be a couple extra mistakes and such, so please go point them out, because I get cripplingly embarrassed every time I notice them months later! I have no beta so all mistakes are my own. Any constructive criticism, comments and kudos are 100% welcome. 
> 
> All characters are the marvellous Victor Hugo's, and any views expressed are not necessarily my own!
> 
> Still a little bit angsty, but I will get some piningjolras in here if it kills me! There are mentions of withdrawals, alcohol, panic attacks, unhealthy dynamics between Enjolras and Grantaire (still), some dodgy medical practitioning and Enjolras trying to navigate ~feelings~ (but not really ~those feelings~ sadly). 
> 
> A very large thank you to [this lovely person](http://barricadestation.tumblr.com/) who spent a good while talking to me about this fic, E/R, and Les Miserables in general, and has been nothing but encouraging!

Enjolras looked up blearily from his textbook when Combeferre’s mobile rang next to him on the kitchen table. It was Éponine, panicked: “he’s not responding, ‘Ferre - he doesn’t even seem to recognise me,” “Oh God, Combeferre, he’s shaking like mad,” “his temperature is pushing 39 degrees – what do I do?” 

He listened with increasing concern as Éponine’s voice increased in volume, speed, and hysteria, as Grantaire remained listless and trembling on their sofa.

Combeferre shot Enjolras a look of worry, and that was enough for him. _If Combeferre was worried then... well, he hardly needed to finish the thought. If Combeferre, notorious for level-headedness, was worried, then the whole of Les Amis should be more than concerned._

“What is it? Combeferre, what’s going on?” he asked, abandoning the book in front of him altogether and shaking his hair back from his eyes.

“Grantaire – his withdrawal symptoms are getting... fairly serious,” he murmured as he got to his feet, grabbing the first aid kit from under the sink. 

“You can do something about it?” Enjolras asked; half-question and half-statement. _Of course Combeferre could fix it. He held the group together at the seams._

“I don’t know,” Combeferre muttered quietly, pulling on his shoes. _He didn’t know? How serious did that make what Grantaire was going through?_ Enjolras’ heart clenched in worry for his friends – Grantaire would be in vast amounts of pain right now if Combeferre’s tightly pursed lips were anything to go by, and Combeferre himself would be inconsolable if anything happened to Grantaire that he couldn’t help make better.

“Hold on, I’m coming with you,” Enjolras told him, leaping up nearly as fast as Combeferre and trailed behind him, pulling on a red zip-up hoodie and bending to grab his shoes from next to the sofa.

“No, you’re not,” Combeferre stated calmly.

“No? What makes you say that?” Enjolras asked indignantly, eyebrows drawing together, slightly affronted. _He needed to be there for Grantaire. He’d promised, whether he actually remembered it or not, and he was not going to go back on that. Besides,_ he decided, as he mentally shook himself away from thoughts of the cynic who currently seemed to despise him, _Combeferre might need support._

“I’m going to need space and a calm atmosphere, and you already look beyond frantic. Grantaire does not want to be crowded in a situation like this. The whole experience is likely to be traumatic because he’s going to be completely out of sorts, and, from what Éponine says, thrashing about. I don’t need to be worrying about you too,” Combeferre said gently, turning to press his forefingers to Enjolras’ chest in an attempt to stop him tailing him. _It was a testament to their friendship that Combeferre didn’t remind him how Enjolras was the last person Grantaire ever wanted to see right now, after the incident in the Musain._

“But I-”

“Need rest and to finish that essay. I don’t know how long I’ll be. There’s risotto in the fridge. Make sure you eat some, remember to sleep and if you need anything, go and see Courf and Marius. I might not have access to my mobile all the time...” Combeferre’s voice tailed off and his inhale was too shaky to promise the calmness his voice was trying to convey, “I don’t know when I will be back. Episodes like this can last a couple of days at times.”

“Combeferre, I promised him...” 

Combeferre didn’t look pitifully at him like Enjolras had feared. His kind brown eyes held only a hint of confusion, but he smiled sympathetically. “I don’t know exactly what you’re referring to, but we’ll talk about this later. I think you can see that this is for the best, E. Don’t worry too much, and _make sure you look after yourself_ ,” he emphasised, with a quirk of the lips that was a shade too worried to suggest that he was only jesting.

Enjolras, nervously clenching and unclenching his fingers, didn’t want to listen to Combeferre, but as usual, knew he was right. This was another case of him tempering his madcap schemes – this time, stopping Enjolras proving he wasn’t selfish by nursing a man who despised him through a feverous withdrawal period. _It sounded truly ridiculous when put like that,_ Enjolras supposed, _but that didn’t stop the desire to be there helping Grantaire, or at least know what was going on._

Combeferre tried to smile reassuringly whilst pulling on his coat, and murmured, “I’ll see you later. Don’t worry!” before he swept out of the door. 

_As if Enjolras could not worry now that he’d caught sight of the poorly-disguised anxiety on Combeferre’s face!_

It was approximately five hours before Enjolras caved and went to visit Courfeyrac and Marius at their flat. He’d spent that five hours writing an entirely unsatisfying, rather lacklustre essay _(being such a good orator meant his essays were usually well-written, if a little speech-like and opinionated, but he knew this one in particular was likely to leave a lot to be desired)_ , pacing around the flat, flicking through news channels on the old TV Combeferre’s parents had lovingly donated to the ‘our son’s best friend has been ostracised by his family’ cause _(a fact that Enjolras despised, despite their kindness, and it was only Combeferre’s expression that stopped him delivering it back to Combeferre’s childhood home on the double)_ , and trying to make espressos on their increasingly cranky and old coffee machine. 

Buzzing on what had to be about three double espressos, Enjolras had finally walked to Courfeyrac and Marius’ shared flat, fed up of pacing and wearing down _his_ carpet and figuring he could do with a change of scenery at least, and was greeted with such intense happiness that it was made it clear they had expected him all along. 

“Five hours and seventeen minutes!” Marius piped up from behind Courfeyrac, who had opened the door with a beaming grin. 

“Bugger! Really?” 

Marius held up the clock with a smile on his freckled face. 

“Damn it, Enjolras! You couldn’t have come seventeen minutes earlier? I was betting on five hours or less!” Courfeyrac chided.

“What?” Enjolras frowned in confusion, feeling vaguely twitchy from all the caffeine. 

“We all knew you’d be like a lost puppy without Combeferre in the flat! Now come in, what’s wrong?” Courfeyrac got over his lost bet within seconds, and smiled triumphantly.

“Nice to know the faith you all have in me,” Enjolras muttered angrily. 

“Hey now, O Fearless Leader, sit down. What’s the problem?” Courfeyrac grinned.

“I don’t know. I think I messed up with Grantaire, and now he’s ill and I can’t go over and apologise.”

“How ill are we talking? ‘Ferre didn’t mention what was wrong when he asked me to babysit you.” 

Enjolras spluttered indignantly at the word “babysit”. 

“Éponine and Combeferre think it’s some sort of withdrawal episode. Like, shaking, sweating – that sort of thing.” 

“Oh...” Courfeyrac let that information sink in for a second, looking uncharacteristically serious, before exclaiming, with his cheeky grin returning, “You sure this isn’t just Combeferre and Éponine looking to get some private time together?” Courfeyrac waggled his eyebrows suggestively. 

Marius’ blush only served to make Courfeyrac grin more. Enjolras wondered vaguely how on earth the two men managed to live together if Marius blushed at the slightest thing. Courfeyrac’s never-ending stream of innuendo and jokes didn’t seem to be something that Marius was acclimatising to, even after two years of Courfeyrac all but picking him off the street by letting him crash rent-free on his sofa until Marius found his feet after been cut off by his grandfather. 

Enjolras glared. “No,” he shook his head, “Combeferre looked genuinely worried.” 

Courfeyrac’s grin lost a few megawatts at that. Marius sputtered hazily, cheeks still red from his embarrassment. “Really?”

Courfeyrac was already pulling out his laptop, booting it up, and, within minutes, typing “alcohol withdrawal symptoms” into the search bar. “Jaysus,” he breathed, after a few minutes of scanning Wikipedia. Marius looked concernedly over his shoulder. 

“What? What is it?” Enjolras all but demanded, arms outstretched for the laptop the pair shared. 

Courfeyrac passed the laptop over without a word, but with a grim smile. Enjolras skim-read the entire article as horrible images of Grantaire convulsing and doubled up with crippling headaches flashed unbidden through his mind. Courfeyrac flopped back against the sofa, the crease forming between his eyebrows only partly hidden by brown curls.

_Shit._

“Do the others know about this?” Marius asked quietly. 

“Jehan!” Courfeyrac shrieked, sitting bolt upright from where he’d collapsed back against the sofa. 

_What now?_

Marius looked at him wide-eyed. 

Enjolras quirked an eyebrow.“What about him? Please tell me you’re not struck with a severe case of missing him or something - it’s been about twelve hours,” he asked somewhat stiffly. 

Courfeyrac ignored the way Enjolras’ lip curled a fraction when he coughed something that sounded suspiciously like “Grantaire.”

 _“’Missing him?’_ Is that was we’re calling it nowadays?” Courfeyrac laughed weakly. 

“You know I don’t concern myself with that!” 

“I know that _much too well_ , O Fearless Leader. You know, just as well, that I am just pulling your leg. Despite it having been twelve hours, I can’t say I’m struck with sudden lovesickness or... _anything else._ No, O Fearless Leader, I was merely thinking that Jehan does not currently know that his best friend is going through some horrific withdrawal, and if I withhold this information from him, Jehan will quite likely withhold-”

Marius’ eyes widened even further and he clamped his thin hands over his ears, eyeing the open Wikipedia article fearfully. 

“Okay, okay. So you were indirectly thinking-” Enjolras cut him off.

“I’m _always_ indirectly thinking-” Courfeyrac winked jokingly, still a little too pale and nervous looking to truly pull it off. 

Marius nodded mournfully.

“Right, right,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, “okay. Are you going to call Jehan then?” Enjolras asked, wearily. 

_It wasn’t his friends’ fault he was in such a bad mood. He couldn’t even pinpoint the reason for it. He could only suppose it to be the fact he’d had too many espressos that caused his jerky and stiff speech and lurching heart._

_Enjolras tried to convince himself that it wasn’t worry for Grantaire. No, not at all. Combeferre would probably be able to handle it, and hopefully after the episode, Enjolras could go over and apologise for what was clearly a very misjudged attempt at helping Grantaire._

_He prayed rather selfishly that Grantaire had gotten ill before he’d had a chance to tell his flatmate what had happened, because else he knew that Éponine was likely going to rip him limb from limb before he even got his toe over the threshold to their flat otherwise!_

_Grantaire was indescribable- infuriating - at once unstable and stoic, sensitive and talented, as well as brusque, directionless and uncaring. He clearly craved acceptance, and yet isolated himself – purposefully playing devil’s advocate to his own friends, the very people who cared about him, and belittled every cause Enjolras ever set in front of him. It was infuriating, uncomfortable, irritating, unwelcome, and yet Enjolras realised now that he wouldn’t do without it if it meant no Grantaire. He didn’t enjoy their constant bickering, and yet, he preferred the constant bickering a whole lot more than the alternative. The meetings were quiet; the lack of Grantaire’s weirdly charming – infuriating - presence was uncomfortable for all of Les Amis, and Enjolras felt increasingly guilty about how he’d treated the man, for all that he drove him mad._

_And now he was unwell – potentially convulsing and hallucinating and God knows what else with just one medical student mopping his brow and his childhood friend holding his hand. Éponine had made it more than clear that his family wouldn’t care, and Enjolras empathised with an intensity he didn’t know he possessed. Would his own parents care if he were in the same position? Probably not – not sincerely, anyway. They’d cart him off to rehab or a medical centre and wouldn’t let him see the light of day again until he was someone they could be proud of. If that could ever be so._

_Grantaire was alone in this – maybe five people aware of his plight - and so Enjolras was determined Les Amis would be the supportive network of understanding and unbiased caring that Grantaire clearly needed. He himself was determined to form a part of that network for as long as required as well - as leader of Les Amis, could he really do anything different?_

\-- 

It was Bahorel who had picked up, ironically, considering he generally wasn’t in the house and mostly just let Jehan use the space as he pleased. It was for this reason that their flat contained several cushions, herb window boxes, seventeen different tea varieties, various black and white photos of both Jehan and Bahorel doing martial arts, paintings of their friends and several paper fans that looked suspiciously like the work of Feuilly on the walls, a homemade patchwork quilt thrown over the sofa and a bookshelf entirely composed of poetry books. 

Jehan and Bahorel had met as flatmates, and despite extremely differing appearances, didn’t take long to hit it off. Bahorel enjoyed listening to Jehan recite as he worked out in their living room or made eye-wateringly hot curry, and Jehan enjoyed sparring with Bahorel and helping the larger man bind his hands or reduce swelling after another inevitable fight or protest gone wrong. They enjoyed some similar films (Bahorel even sat through Jehan’s collection of romantic comedies if plied with enough beer) and joined various martial art societies together, and that, it seemed, was enough to lead them straight down the path of close friendship. 

Jehan had introduced Grantaire as one of his best friends a couple of months later, and hadn’t noticed the way Bahorel’s eyebrows had drawn together, sizing the much shorter and athletic man up. It had taken almost the full hour of kick-boxing class with Jehan and Grantaire for Bahorel’s smirk to become a grudging smile, and less than three pints afterwards for him to be laughing, slapping Grantaire on the shoulder and dragging Courfeyrac to join them in a high-stakes drinking contest. The victory that night had cemented the four men’s friendship on an almost unshakeable, though admittedly unconventional, foundation. 

Grantaire had introduced the four to Feuilly, his friend from art class, mostly after Jehan had spent the afternoon pestering about where he got the incredible paper fans from for his last piece. Feuilly hadn’t known many people at university; having come by himself, applied fairly late, and been left to find accommodation alone. It was this, and working incredibly long hours to afford his education in the first place, that meant not a great deal of socialisation had been enjoyed by their friend. 

Feuilly and Bahorel had become close friends even faster than Grantaire and Bahorel had hit it off themselves, much to Grantaire’s chagrin in his more despairing drunken hours. Feuilly’s deprecating humour, hard-working attitude and easy kindness, as well as fierce loyalty, slightly defensive nature and willingness to fight for equality and fairness (or just back Bahorel up when needed) made the pair a perfect match, in terms of friends, brothers, and drinking partners. Even Enjolras had to bite back a smile when he saw Feuilly pulling Bahorel into a headlock after they conceded a goal to Jehan and Courf at table football. 

Courfeyrac and Jehan pretended they merely appreciated the space apart that came with living separately, like they were determined to keep their relationship as fresh and new for as long as possible, but Courfeyrac was even more well known for his loyalty and warmth than his terrible suggestive jokes, and he would rather walk over burning coals than leave Marius high and dry by moving out. Most of Les Amis already had, or didn’t desire, a flatmate and Mr Valjean was probably a good few years from allowing his little girl move in with her boyfriend, and thus Courfeyrac and Jehan lived apart. They still seemed to long to be together whenever they were separated, much to Enjolras’ despair, but the kindness his friends displayed warmed his heart whenever he slipped and let his guard down. Despite Courfeyrac’s previous promiscuity and all the talk, the pair had been teeth-achingly sweet as a couple ever since they’d met. 

_It was only Courfeyrac’s charisma and semi-miraculous persuasive skills that meant he kept him around,_ Enjolras sometimes joked, but anyone who knew the pair knew it was complete rubbish. The two, as well as Combeferre, had known one another since they were idealistic schoolboys (Grantaire often argued they were _still_ idealistic schoolboys) and even through the minefield that was Courfeyrac’s puberty (it seemed to have mostly skipped the other two boys apart from the odd acne outbreak and Combeferre's wispy moustache phase), the three had remained as focussed on the injustices outside the tiny upper-class bubble they inhabited as ever. 

Courfeyrac was an asset, both for his amazing interpersonal skills, and for his differences. As his attendance at their school was based only on a performing arts scholarship, Courfeyrac knew what it was like, in some small way, to worry about education and money, and whether he’d be invited back next year. When Courfeyrac had burst into the meeting Combeferre and Enjolras had arranged with a handful of students that cycled in and out of their “club”, mostly for lazy amusement and the wish to rebel, and not actual anger at the oppressive system, with a blinding grin and shaking hands clasping an envelope like it contained the Philosopher’s Stone itself _(Enjolras blamed Courfeyrac for the imagery his brain had chosen, considering his friend’s love for everything Harry Potter)_ and announced he was safe for another year, Enjolras’ guts had twisted in the knowledge that he was handed on a platter everything that Courfeyrac had ever had to work for. It was not long after that that the meetings comprised of not just theoretical discussion, but fundraising for scholarships students, protests, rule changes, speechs and debates. Combeferre and Courfeyrac neglected to say anything about Enjolras’ new-found fire, even in the certainty that teachers were beginning to notice and mutter amongst themselves. It wouldn’t be long before Enjolras’ parents found out, midway through Sixth Form, and things really began to spiral away from him. Nevertheless, he was grateful for his friends’ support, grateful for their similar university plans, and grateful to the omnipresent deity (or possibly just kind admissions staff) that meant the trio could stick together and (in Courfeyrac’s words): “continue to spread the word of equality, using Combeferre’s intelligence, Enjolras’ passion, and Courfeyrac’s hot body to their advantage.” (“Imagine where you’d be without me, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac had laughed, “how would you ever get sort of following if it wasn’t for my sweet-talking?”) 

\-- 

Bahorel “not taking it well” was putting it fairly mildly. 

He had growled “You’re fucking kidding,” and handed the phone to a nervous Jehan, who stood bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet, nearly wringing his hands at the amalgamation of anger, worry, resignation, fear and frustration on his flatmate’s face. 

“Lover boy,” Bahorel had mouthed at Jehan as he passed the phone over, but even that wasn’t enough to twist Jehan’s delicate features into anything more substantial than a passing twitch-of-the-mouth smile. 

“Courf, what’s wrong?” he’d demanded, and Enjolras could hear Jehan’s muffled, panicked interjections from the other end of the phone line. 

“...Five hours? How long do these usually episodes last?”

“Up to a couple of days, Wikipedia says,” Courfeyrac sighed.

_Enjolras knew that Grantaire would have snorted at Courfeyrac’s use of Wikipedia as a source, heck, Enjolras might have snorted if he wasn’t so nervy about the whole situation, and his stomach clenched worriedly._

“And what can we do? Is there anything we can do? We have to go and see him! Can we see him?”

“Combeferre’s pretty much barred Enjolras and the rest of us from the flat.”

Marius sat quietly beside where Courfeyrac was pacing the length of their living room, staring almost bleakly at the coffee stain on the table in front of him and drumming his long fingers on the sofa arm. Enjolras found the way his pale eyes were glued to the spot and the rhythmic beating almost distracting. The rhythm of Marius’ fingers seemed to pick up, and Enjolras’ irritation spiked with it. The noise was too much like a drum roll or rolling thunder clouds for his liking; it suggested an oncoming storm and Enjolras was nearly 110% sure he couldn’t stand anything else right now. 

“Bahorel and Jehan seem determined to swing by Grantaire’s and Éponine’s flat to see if he’s a little better. Jehan’s almost incoherent with worry, and Bahorel’s pretending not to be concerned and like he’s just going along for Jehan, but I think they’re both about 10 seconds away from some horrible consequence of scarily high blood pressure that Joly likes to frighten us all about,” Courfeyrac sighed, rubbing his forehead resignedly as he returned the phone to its stand. 

“Do you think we should....maybe, go too?” Marius broke the silence with a querulous voice, full of concern. _Enjolras felt his irritation towards Marius fade pretty much instantaneously, and felt he could have almost kissed him for relieving him of having to ask that question. God knows what Courfeyrac would have tried to insinuate if he’d said what Marius just had._

Courfeyrac pulled a face, like he was even considering declining for a moment, and Enjolras could almost see the war waging inside his head. He could certainly feel his own:

_Combeferre said not to, Combeferre said not to, but Jehan and Bahorel are, and Grantaire is our friend, and he had promised him, he’d promised him he’d be there for him, Combeferre said not to – he’d said not to, he’d said not to-_

_He had to make it up to him. Combeferre said not to. He had to. He had to._

Enjolras nodded _\- if only to stop the others making a scene -_ he decided with another impassive nod, trying not to betray his own churning mix of guilt, worry and jubilation on his face.

\-- 

As it transpired, Bahorel texted Feuilly, who texted Bosseut, which stirred Joly and Musichetta into a frenzy, and Musichetta notified Cosette, who called Marius to check that he knew too, and before they knew it, every one of Les Amis was outside Grantaire and Éponine’s rundown flat, huddled in a too-small porch and under a solitary drooping umbrella held by Bossuet. 

Joly’s usually bright smile was lost amongst the drizzle and pamphlets and fear, and it was only Musichetta clinging tightly to his hand that kept the trembling from being too noticeable. Cosette looked drawn, paler than usual, with her blonde hair pulled into a quick bun, and wearing a t-shirt and leggings that she’d clearly flung on to drive, and was biting her nails compulsively. Marius kept shooting her worried looks. Jehan was silent and looked melancholy, eyes wide and almost unseeing, stood slightly apart from the others in a bobbly jumper, which was slowly becoming misted with rain. Courfeyrac understood well enough not to interrupt, and stood with Feuilly and Bahorel, who both looked concerned and frustrated at the lack of control anyone had over the situation. Bahorel’s hands seem to be clenching, but nothing could physically be done to make anything better – a fact which infuriated Enjolras no end too. 

_Do you even understand? I looked **weak**. I looked unbearably weak._

The memory snuck unbidden into Enjolras’ mind at annoyingly frequent intervals, since that night, coiling and unravelling into intangibility whenever he stopped to think about the meaning behind Grantaire’s words. _How could they think Grantaire weak? Weak because the lack of control he had over his addiction? But that was the same for any addict – why was Grantaire feeling so?_

_Grantaire had always been a bit of a special case. His reactions weren’t often what Enjolras expected, and in turn, Enjolras seemed to have developed a strong habit for saying or doing the worst possible thing, if the looks from Combeferre and Éponine were anything to go by._

_He couldn’t stop himself, his tongue shaping unwelcome words, running on and on, and Grantaire’s replies were always just as sharp, just as splintery – right up until the point where he looked like he’d been cut open, and all the hurt bled into his blue, incredibly blue, eyes._

_But he’d never thought him weak. Not even now. Perhaps more needing of support, but never weak. Grantaire, Éponine had always made quite clear, was one of the strongest people they knew, even if the reasons for believing such were kept purposely unclear._

_Grantaire was private - fiercely so. Beyond the charm, drinking, discussion, the raucous merriment he seemed to bring to meetings (much to Enjolras’ own admitted distaste) when not drowning in whatever hidden depths the others seemed to hint at, and his knowledge of every part of London worth knowing: every bar, every cafe, every restaurant, every club, the best places for people-watching, for painting, for poetry; Grantaire was a wealth, despite his privacy. But for all this that was known, there was so much that was not._

_Enjolras did not know how he expected to help a man he seemed to know nothing, except the superficial, about, but he knew, just as strongly, that that wasn’t going to stop him trying his damnedest._

\-- 

The doorstep negotiation was likely to be cited for the rest of Les Amis’ history as Combeferre’s most resigned, exasperated and deadly serious moment before or hence.

He looked exhausted – emotionally, more than anything – and his sandy hair was ruffled from where he’d carded his hands through it restlessly (though Courfeyrac’s initial smirk suggested he’d assumed something else). Combeferre sized the group up with a sigh that said more than any number of words could. 

“Combeferre, I-” Enjolras began, apologetic yet firm. 

“We’ve talked about this, Enjolras. It’s better with less crowding.”

“’Ferre, as a fellow medical student, I feel that-” Joly started, and having prised his milky white hands from his partners’ grips, was nervously wringing them at the thought of Grantaire’s condition.

“Joly, I know and respect your considerable skill as a trainee doctor, and should this become too much for me, or I need a rest, or Grantaire takes a turn for the worst, I will undoubtedly call you, but I really need as much space as I can get. Their front room is... not large, and I can barely work in _that_ space with Éponine as jittery as she is. I really _cannot_ deal with anyone else right now,” Combeferre pinched the bridge of his nose, “ _Please_ , my friends, let this be.”

Joly looked like he might have pushed on, but Bossuet squeezed his hand warningly with a small quirk of the lips. Musichetta bristled slightly at the tone Combeferre was using, but Enjolras understood. Combeferre looked the most stressed he thought he’d ever seen him, and every second he spent away from the sofa seemed to increase that tenfold.

“Tell Grantaire I’m going to kick his skinny ass boxing as soon as he’s better, for scaring us all like this!” Bahorel growled, with one last tense flex of the hand. 

Even Courfeyrac’s mouth barely even twitched at the comment, and Joly all but whimpered at the idea of Grantaire fighting _anyone_ in the near future. 

“Combeferre!” Éponine’s panicked voice called from somewhere in the flat, “Can you come back here? Grantaire’s really... not well.” 

Enjolras could have sworn he heard a pained cry, and Jehan’s face paled exponentially at the sound. Joly was pretty much being forcibly held back by his boyfriend at this point, now clasping a stack of pamphlets and textbooks that he’d fished from Musichetta’s canvas bag. “’Ferre,” he implored, “please – if you won’t let me help you, just make sure... make sure Grantaire reads some of these when he comes around, okay? At least three! Promise me, at least three pamphlets, and seriously too, not him just mocking or taking the piss out of them. I’ve written down some clinics and rehab centres that might help, as well as some web addresses. The useful pages in the textbook have been sticky-noted green, okay? Look after him, and, and ... call me if anything changes.” 

“’Ferre, please...” Enjolras began, pushing in front of the furious-looking Bahorel. It was only Feuilly’s placating hand on his arm that seemed to be anchoring him to the doormat, and not pushing past Combeferre into the hallway. 

“Enjolras – he’s going to be okay,” Combeferre assured him, but Enjolras could see the uncertainty in his friend’s clear brown eyes, and couldn’t find it within himself to believe him. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Y-yes. Yes, he’s going to be fine. If he worsens, we’ll go straight to the hospital, but I don’t think we can move him just yet. Not with just the two of us, anyway. We will call you if we need help, alright, but for now, sleep, go to work, do whatever you need to do – okay? We’ll keep you all updated.” 

“Promise?” Joly asked quietly, pushing the textbook mountain into Combeferre’s arms. 

“Promise,” Combeferre told him solemnly, and gave them nothing more but a weak smile as reassurance against the panting cry from down the hall, as he turned to return to Grantaire’s place on the sofa.

Éponine stumbled into the hallway, looking awful, as Combeferre moved past her, new-sprung tears creating track-marks in her already smudged makeup, clinging to a flannel that she was clearly going to go and wet in the cracked bathroom sink. Catching sight of the others standing by the porch - still stunned by Combeferre’s striding off down the hall without a goodbye, or even closing the front door as soon as he heard Grantaire’s cry – Éponine visibly started. 

A couple of hesitant steps were all she would take forward until Cosette held open her arms to her, and Éponine melted into the hug without thought, as Musichetta rubbed her shoulder soothingly, still tightly clinging to Joly with her other hand. Once she extracted herself from one of Cosette’s “magic hugs” (as Courfeyrac had termed them), Éponine seemed to notice, for the first time, Enjolras, stood just in front of Bahorel and Feuilly in the porch.

“And you!” she hissed, and pushed him on the chest so forcefully that he stumbled and would have fallen, if not for Bahorel catching him with a grunt of surprise. She looked fierce, almost feral, and Enjolras felt, for the not the first time regarding Éponine, like he was confronting a caged wild animal when he stared into those intense eyes. 

“You fucking _promised me!_ You promised me you weren’t going to be a _fucking dick_ and toy with his feelings like this!” 

“Wh-what?” Enjolras stuttered, shocked by Éponine’s fury, “I didn’t-”

“Didn’t _what,_ Enjolras? _Didn’t_ make all his friends drink coffee so he felt weak and stupid for something he can’t control? _Didn’t_ make him throw up in an alleyway after you _fucking left him alone during a panic attack?_ What else _didn’t you do_?” Éponine asked, coldly furious.

The rest of Les Amis seemed stunned into silence, watching the exchange with horrified expressions as they seemed to realise what Enjolras had inadvertently done. _He was awful, he was despicable – what had he done to his friend?_

The last person Enjolras expected to speak up for him did. 

“Éponine, that’s enough,” Marius told her, after a beat too much silence, “Enjolras has been worried all afternoon, and any harm or hurt he has caused Grantaire has always been nothing but an accident – an argument too far. You should be in there with him now, or resting. Don’t use your energy up on us.”

Marius sounded surprisingly in control, and Enjolras gaped at him. Éponine too, stared opened-mouth before slowly regaining some semblance of dignity. She shot Enjolras one last cold look before huffing and walking off into the bathroom with the flannel. She too, left the door open to the shocked faces of Les Amis, and called coldly over her shoulder “You can let yourselves out!” 

\-- 

Les Amis didn’t exactly take Combeferre’s advice. Jehan was too shaken up to do much but stare distantly and trace jagged patterns into his notepad as Courfeyrac sat, blanched, rubbing his other hand in a parody of comfort which was partly just a compulsive need to be doing _something._

The group sat, huddled in the back corner of the Musain, and watched the drizzle trace tracks down the steamy windows. Musichetta had gotten someone to cover her shift as soon as she’d heard the news about Grantaire, and the frightened-looking girl now serving coffee took one look at her boss’ bleak expression and got out ten mugs. The coffee wasn’t as good as Musichetta’s _(but then, no one’s, not even Éponine’s was)_ but it was better than nothing, and it was _something to do._ The silence was uncomfortable, each person embroiled in their own personal paranoia and fidgeting nervously.

Enjolras’ hair was frizzy from the rain, and he knew he looked a mess but couldn’t bring himself to care. Les Amis were giving him occasional looks that ranged from sympathy and confusion to something that seemed to be akin to mild judgement. He knew they must be thinking about what Éponine had said, and really, who could blame them? _Éponine was probably right. He had been such an arsehole, when all he’d tried to do was help. Combeferre had warned him that it could be misconstrued as insensitive, but he’d ignored him pigheadedly and cajoled the group into doing it – even a mildly pissed off Bahorel – and now look!_

It was Marius who finally broke the silence, causing the company to look up from where most of them were watching steam curl from the hot drinks in front of them. “He’ll be alright, right?” he murmured, shaking a wet strand of hair from his face and nervously dropping his eyes.

No one answered; even Cosette merely smiled weakly and squeezed her boyfriend’s hand. 

_Enjolras didn’t know why Marius seemed so pale beneath his freckles. When had he ever shown much attention to Grantaire – or anyone besides Cosette really? He was well-meaning, and Enjolras admired his skills with languages and drive to become a lawyer, not for his family, but for himself (something Enjolras never could have done), but he couldn’t deny that he’d never seen Grantaire and Marius particularly friendly. They all seemed to regard him like an over-zealous puppy, a reputation which, although founded upon actual instances of horrifying levels of enthusiasm, always seemed a little unfair. Marius fought his corner well enough, despite their occasionally conflicting views and how Marius always seemed terribly distracted whenever Cosette was around, and Enjolras respected that._ No one could answer him though.

“We’ll just have to wait and see. Combeferre is highly competent, and I have fai-faith, in his ability to... make it okay.” Joly sniffed, with a watery smile. He hadn’t been anything like his usual happy self since leaving the doorway, and seemed to be vying to return to the flat to help. As someone so caring and with medical experience on top of that, he seemed to be really struggling with the idea of his friend in pain and not doing anything about it.

Enjolras nodded slowly. _If anyone could make it okay, Combeferre could._ That much he _did_ know.

No one said much else for the remainder of the afternoon – murmured conversations held with nothing like the usual spirit that characterised their back-room meetings, weak and fleeting smiles, and rapidly cooling coffees didn’t do much to brighten the group’s mood. People flaked away in dribs and drabs – other commitments like work and lectures cited as the reason - as well as clearly just wanting to be out of the stifling silence of the room.

Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Jehan were the last three remaining, when Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet at last left for their flat that evening. Jehan was still staring resolutely at his notepad, tracing pattern after pattern across the pages, unspeaking, even hours later. Courfeyrac looked concernedly at Jehan, biting his lip, clearly worried he was lapsing into one of the melancholy moods that he was sometimes prone to, which had been known overtake their friend for days at a time.

Enjolras just sat silently, deep in thought, sipping on rapidly cooling coffee and wishing that Combeferre would call, just to say _anything_ , just so he wasn’t alone with his own thoughts, of how _shit_ he’d been to Grantaire, and how Grantaire probably didn’t even _remember_ that one time they’d left a conversation whole and equal. He barely even _spoke_ to the man, and yet every time he did, seemed to remind Grantaire of his failings, failings that Enjolras just _couldn’t_ ignore, but had no right to point out, all the same. 

Enjolras couldn’t fathom why what he said seemed to affect Grantaire so – _yes, he was often cruel, but surely Les Amis as a whole were nothing but kind to Grantaire. Why would Grantaire listen to **him** over all his **actual** friends? It clearly wasn’t because he was unofficial leader of Les Amis de l’ABC – Grantaire clearly didn’t care about that, and mocked their group at every opportune (and inopportune) moment – so what was it? There was not anything special about him, really. He wanted to change the world, not just in small practical increments that might **actually be feasible** , but completely, and with little idea how to go about it, as Grantaire loved to point out, and was only just scraping by on a measly allowance and Combeferre’s unceasing generosity. He was nothing special._

Enjolras didn’t understand it at all, and that fierce need to understand, but inability to, was driving him mad. He found himself needing more and more to speak to his closest friend and roommate, and just hoped he’d be back soon, with Grantaire well and on the mend, preferably.

\-- 

It was two whole days – two _bloody_ days - before Combeferre came home, shuffling back into the flat and collapsing into the shower whilst Enjolras roused himself slowly from an unsettled sleep. 

Enjolras woke groggily to the sound of someone clattering around, and for a moment, forgot himself entirely. It took a beat or two for him to realise where he was. He looked around, half-surprised to be in his own room in the flat he usually shared with Combeferre, slumped in the chair by his desk, face creased and displaying a smear of ink above the corner of his mouth from sleeping with his face pressed into the pages of a half-written speech. _Again?_

The only other person who had a key was Combeferre, but it had been _what, two or three days since he’d last caught sight of him?_ He’d not been sleeping well, without Combeferre there, and with the knowledge that he was across town, fighting to help Grantaire and fix a mess that Enjolras, in part, had caused.

Combeferre found Enjolras, sleep-mussed and stressed, at the kitchen table, and his mouth twitched at the image – Enjolras, all too-short pyjamas and bare feet, staring Combeferre down with two mugs of steaming coffee in front of him.

“Any minute now you’re going to tell me to take a seat,” Combeferre teased.

“Combeferre, please, I’m not in the mood for jokes right now,” Enjolras implored nervously.

“I’m sorry,” Combeferre smiled gently. 

“Is Grantaire okay?”

“He’d woken up, his temperature was down, he was holding perfectly reasonable conversation and was joking with us when I left.”

“So he’s okay?” Enjolras exhaled in a relieved rush.

“At the moment, yes,” Combeferre nodded, “but I’m on call for relapses or recurring symptoms or any other problems. These things are unpredictable. Grantaire’s not to get better _immediately_ – he’s not just going to go through this withdrawal and never want to touch a drop of alcohol again! He’s going to need a lot of support and if he recovers, even years from now there will still be temptation there. He _will_ probably give in to it several times, and it is not our place to judge. Okay?” 

“I understand, ‘Ferre,” Enjolras give his friend a small smile and took a sip of coffee with a grimace, “thank you.” 

Combeferre watched his friend pile sugar into his coffee as Enjolras bit his lip and ran a hand through his hair, wondering how on earth to broach the confusing subject of _whatever the heck he should be doing concerning Grantaire._

Enjolras looked up at Combeferre, hoping, at least, that he could display his confusion, his infuriating inability to _find words_ to express what he wanted and _needed_ to say, and that Combeferre would have some advice. He knew his moods almost better than Enjolras did himself, and Enjolras knew he’d be lost without his friend. Courfeyrac jokingly called Combeferre Enjolras’ “better half,” and Enjolras knew that Courf wasn’t wrong. 

“You want to talk about what we mentioned before I left?” Combeferre asked gently, stirring milk into his own coffee. 

“Well... not really, but I don’t know what to do, and whenever I decide to do something for myself without consulting you it normally falls apart, so your opinion would be appreciated in this instance,” Enjolras admitted, with a curt nod. 

“Is this about Grantaire?” Combeferre asked kindly, “because, yes, what you did wasn’t possibly the best way to go about a show of solidarity, but the sentiments were there, and I’m sure Grantaire can understand that you meant no harm and no offense by what you did, even if you shouldn’t have told the others without his express permission.”

“I know,” Enjolras dropped his head slightly, “please, ‘Ferre, don’t remind me of my past mistakes right now. I just need to know how to fix this.”

“Fix this?”

Enjolras gestured wildly in front of him. “This _thing_ with Grantaire.”

“I feel like I’m missing a hell of a lot of information here, Enjolras...” Combeferre prompted sympathetically.

Enjolras winced slightly at the thought of recounting his conversations with Grantaire. They felt... _private._ Combeferre might very well be his other, better, half, but Enjolras still felt that what Grantaire and he had shared that evening, even if Grantaire didn’t remember, was something that should be kept from public scrutiny, if at all possible.

“Okay, okay. I um, don’t exactly know where to start,” Enjolras rubbed his jaw line tiredly.

Combeferre gave a patient smile and sipped his coffee. Enjolras didn’t know what he had done in a past life to be granted a saint of a flatmate, who had no qualms about getting back after two days of nursing a friend and sitting and talking through an existential crisis with him.

“You remember Courfeyrac’s birthday, when we all went out to that club?” Enjolras began.

“Of course.”

“You’ll remember that Grantaire and Éponine were dancing, right?”

Combeferre nodded. _Best to just get this over with._

“Well, I didn’t know Grantaire could dance like that. I didn’t really know he had _any hobbies at all_ , so I was probably kind of staring, and he comes over to me. I was going to apologise, just like you told me I should, and just like I _felt_ I should, and I just blurted out about the dancing instead. I pretty much _demanded_ to know where he learnt to dance like that, and he told me he took _ballet_ lessons. I actually did succeed in apologising after. I said he didn’t owe me anything, _because I suppose he **doesn’t** really,_ however much I’d _like_ him to contribute to the cause – because it _is_ a worthy one, no matter what _Grantaire_ thinks!” 

Combeferre pursed his lips. 

Enjolras took a deep breath and tried again: “So, I said he didn’t owe me anything and was perfectly entitled to be cynical if he wanted.” He looked up as Combeferre let out an amused huff of breath, frowning slightly.

“Sorry. Please, carry on,” he smiled.

“And then he goes off and starts quoting _playwrights_ , for goodness’ sake, and _mocking me_ , so I tried and steer the conversation away from things that were going to cause arguments.”

Enjolras’ heart completely _doesn’t_ swell at the slightly proud smile on Combeferre’s lips.

“Don’t get too excited, ‘Ferre. I still managed to mess it up. I then brought the conversation back around to ballet because I was, clutching at straws a little, I guess. Then Grantaire just listed a bunch of stuff I didn’t know about like... Gavroche’s report card, and Bossuet’s new job, and you and Éponine...”

_Enjolras tried fervently to ignore Combeferre’s blush at the mention of Éponine, and tried equally hard to ignore his own desire to shudder at her reaction to him several days before. Yes, Combeferre really had chosen the perfect girl for Enjolras to ever try to get along with as his ‘crush’._

“Anyway, basically, he brought up that he knew Jehan from kickboxing or something, and knew Bahorel, Courf and Feuilly before he stumbled into the back room that one time. I didn’t know he _knew_ Feuilly, because I thought that before Bahorel introduced us all to him, Feuilly didn’t really know anyone much. As it turned out, _Grantaire_ introduced Bahorel to Feuilly, who he knew from his art classes! I didn’t even know Grantaire _took_ art classes!”

Combeferre gaped at him. “How could you not have known that?”

“I thought he was doing Philosophy or something, okay? I never thought to ask, and as soon as he said, it was clearly obvious, but that’s by the by. He was offended that I never paid any sort of attention to him because he thought I think he’s not important to the cause and so not worth my time. That’s basically it. I danced with Éponine, who generally threatened me to stop being disparaging towards Grantaire because it seems to make his drinking worse. Obviously, I had failed at that, because he went off and got drunk,” Enjolras tried to cover his feelings of guilt with a curl of the lip, “and danced with everyone and generally became such a hindrance to your dance with Éponine that, and I presume you remember this bit, you made me _babysit_ him whilst you danced with her.”

Combeferre blushed again as Enjolras opened his mouth to comment. Combeferre, however, got there first: “We’ll talk about this some other time. Let’s worry about you and Grantaire first.”

_Enjolras didn’t miss how he seemed to refer to him and Grantaire in the same way as he might himself and Éponine._

“It’s not like that!”

“I’m not implying that it is. Please, Enjolras, there is no need to be so defensive about it. You’re worried about him, and he’s our friend too, and so everyone else is too. Don’t worry about that.”

“Courfeyrac seems to think...” Enjolras admitted hesitantly.

“Courfeyrac and Jehan look for love everywhere. Don’t let it bother you. You’ll know when you know, and there’s no rush to do anything. If you never want to, that’s equally fine.”

“Are we, are we still talking about Grantaire?” Enjolras asked confusedly.

“I don’t know, Enjolras. _Are we?_ ” Combeferre asked lightly.

“Not in the way you’re thinking of, _no_ ,” Enjolras frowned at his friend. _What was it with people assuming...?_

Combeferre cleared his throat, taking an awkward gulp of coffee before continuing. “Right, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to seem like I was implying or intruding in your business. Please continue.”

“He was so... _different_ ...when drunk. It was like he was being more honest, less mocking – it was so strange, Combeferre. I don’t think I liked it. It was like he was trying to _please_ me, instead of wind me up, and it felt so _wrong_ , because he’s usually _so_ infuriating! He started talking about his drinking, and his and Éponine’s financial problems and about that night we got arrested, and it was just so _wrong_ because he would not have said _any_ of it sober. We were talking like _friends_ , and I promised to help him with quitting because I don’t want to see anyone struggle like that. I mean, um, Les Amis de l’ABC are a supportive network for this sort of thing, and we campaign about addiction and so it’s only right that we should-”

“It’s okay to just _care_ , Enjolras.”

“I know it’s okay, Combeferre!” Enjolras snapped quickly, regret replacing anger within seconds. “I’m sorry, I just...”

“You’re worried. It’s okay. We all are,” Combeferre nodded his understanding.

“He said he _believed in me_ , Combeferre. He said, ‘I might not believe in your causes but I definitely believe in you.’ What do you even _say to that_?”

Combeferre looked thoughtful. “Okay, and then what?”

“Well, I _tried_ to help, ignored your warning and screwed everything up. I don’t even think Grantaire _remembers_ my promise to him. That’s the problem. I want to help him, but we’ve never been friends, I _clearly_ know nothing about him, and he barely knows anything more about me! He doesn’t remember what I said to him, and I can’t imagine he’ll just _believe_ I want to help him with sincerity after my recent words to him. I made him leave the Musain, Combeferre, and I got him arrested. I made him have a panic attack in an alleyway. I wouldn’t trust me either.” Enjolras exhaled heavily, head in hands. “I really don’t know what to do,” he sighed, “but I _promised_.”

Combeferre’s faced betrayed a slight spasm of concern, but otherwise remained impassive. “Everything you’ve been done has been motivated by a desire to help Grantaire or get him to reach his potential. It’s been misguided at times, admittedly, but none of it has been in spite. Please don’t beat yourself up about it. Maybe a few months ago, I would have been disappointed, because I don’t think you’d have noticed or barely cared what affect your words have on Grantaire. I’m pleased, at least, that you’re beginning to see it, and try to act accordingly. Éponine and he have been through a lot – a lot more than either of us can really guess at, by the sounds of it – and all we can do is be there and be supportive. I don’t think Grantaire would want a grand gesture of solidarity like you planned. Just _being there_ will be enough. We will all be there.”

_Enjolras could only hope that that would be true – that he **would** be there for Grantaire, and remain there for him, not jettisoning everything for a new cause when one came up. Not that Grantaire **was** a cause - not at all! He’d made **that** abundantly clear._

_Enjolras just hoped his selfishness, the selfishness that no one but Grantaire seemed to have the nerve to mention, wouldn’t get the better of him._


	7. R

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was pity, pure and simple, and God knows Grantaire didn’t want that. To be pitied by one he so admired would be a hundred times worse than mere disdain." 
> 
> In which Grantaire struggles onwards, Éponine deals with a lot of shit, Joly and Bossuet are absolute darlings and Jehan brings the flapjack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I want to apologise for literally abandoning this for so long. My excuses are pretty much just that life and college got in the way. I'm really really sorry. I doubt that many people were missing this, but at the same time, I hate to keep even one person waiting. 
> 
> This chapter was a bit of a pain to write, but I have some ideas for the next one (hoorah!) so hopefully it won't take as long as this one did. Any comments, criticism, kudos etc are very welcome. 
> 
> All characters are the property of Victor Hugo and any views expressed are not necessarily my own. 
> 
> Mentions of: withdrawals, alcoholism, drug use, self harm, unhealthy dynamics between Enjolras and Grantaire, repressed feelings and generally bad relationships with sexuality and self esteem (poor Grantaire).

It took longer than Grantaire would care to admit for Éponine and him to break apart from their embrace. Éponine seemed to be at the point of fracture, relieved and exhausted and worried, so tired of trying to be strong for the last 48 hours, that Grantaire was happy to sit limply on the sofa with her as she dozed beside him. 

She seemed so childlike in her sleep, reminding him what he often forgot – _that although she’d raised herself, seen it all, and knew the city like the back of her hand, she was just as young as he was. He felt guilty for having piled more weight onto already bowed shoulders._

Éponine spent any time not in lectures or working in the cafe with Grantaire or her younger siblings. She had little or no time for herself, and any time that she did, Grantaire couldn’t help but notice her gravitating towards Marius. 

The first two years of university had been filled with Éponine trailing the young Pontmercy devotedly – frequent study sessions, coffee dates, and invitations to bars and cinemas and clubs – anything to glean some attention from the only person in her life aside from Grantaire to treat her like she wasn’t damaged goods, a troublemaker or beneath him. It was clear Marius was well-off, his clothing, manners and signet ring said as much, but he was never ostentatious about it, and it wasn’t until three quarters through the first year that they realised that he wasn’t really _flat-sharing_ with Courfeyrac, but rather kipping on his sofa bed until he had a steady means of income. Marius was a whizz at languages, fluent in French, German, Spanish and Mandarin, and with a handle on Portuguese, Latin, Catalan and Russian, and quickly began to work in translating and teaching in his spare time, and so he and Courfeyrac quickly then split the rent between them. 

_He was kind, and good-looking enough,_ Grantaire supposed, _if you liked the gangly, enthusiastically cute type._ Éponine venerated the boy in a much different style to Grantaire with Enjolras. Éponine was as teasing and friendly as possible, following him about and assisting in any way she could, craving affection and kindness to the point where she agreed to help Marius find the blonde girl he had the crush on, a decision which has repercussions that had taken a lot of alcohol to wash away in the following months, and Grantaire, being the friend he was, was obviously on hand to help. 

Normally when one of them were sad, a bottle of obscenely flavoured vodka, or whiskey, or enough cheap cider to take down a horse was procured, and steadily drunk by the pair, until neither party could feel their legs, let alone their pain. _That wasn’t really a viable option this time._ Most of the alcohol Grantaire had stashed had been found and poured down the sink, and Grantaire was much too terrified of letting Combeferre’s mild and hopeful expression turn into disappointment to try to find the rest just yet. He hoped he wouldn’t have to go and find it at all. Grantaire could only imagine what Combeferre must have told Enjolras by now.

_“A mess, Enjolras, you should have seen. Track marks in the crooks of his arms, and scars all over his wrists. A wonder he’s still here with us at all.”_

His head was pounding and his skin felt clammy with sweat but at least he didn’t feel as hot and feverish as he had done. The blanket wrapped around him was also draped over Éponine’s legs. She was dozing in a position that looked hellishly uncomfortable, neck cricked, but Grantaire’s limbs still weren’t cooperating enough to allow him to do much more than sit propped upright, let alone move Éponine’s sleeping form onto a bed or into a more comfortable position. He sat, feeling helpless and grimy, sipping water from a pint glass and trying to ignore the depths of his mind that wished it was something else he was drinking. 

Grantaire couldn’t help replaying what he’d overheard that morning before Combeferre had left them: 

_“Bahorel looked about thirty seconds from breaking down the door when I said that everyone shouldn’t come in because he’d hate to be seen like this and needed some space. To be fair, Enjolras looked about one second away from helping him.”_

_“He’s been feeling completely awful about the whole situation, Éponine. I don’t really understand it. I’ve not seen him like his before, and I’ve known him since we were both tiny.”_

_It was wishful thinking, really. Any hopeless fool could see that. It was pity, pure and simple, and God knows Grantaire didn’t want that. To be pitied by one he so admired would be a hundred times worse than mere disdain._

_What else did he expect though? Enjolras sat with him at the bar to stop him from harassing Combeferre and getting completely wrecked and showing them up, played at understanding and caring just to get more support for his newest campaign, and came along with all Les Amis to his flat when he was feverous and shaking because he’d just look like a total arsehole if he didn’t._

_It was abstract pity - he didn’t have enough time or energy to deal with all of Grantaire’s problems. Grantaire barely dealt with them either, just pushing them down with alcohol, expressing them with paint, and just managing to get his hands to stop shaking using cigarettes. There was nothing sensible or healthy in his coping mechanisms, and without the alcohol, he was only going to remember more of what Enjolras said, more of the fury, disbelief and resignation on his beautiful features, and more of his own fuckups. He wished he’d never got into this mess, never saw Enjolras’ Adonis-like face if it was only going to give him fleeting moments of white-hot all-consuming purpose and crushing feelings of inadequacy the rest of the time, and never started drowning his issues in the bottom of cheap bottles of booze._

_Thank God Éloise hadn’t seen him in months – he couldn’t bear his sister to seen him in this state. She rang, of course, every week or two, whenever their father wasn’t around to demand if Grantaire had got a job yet, or a girlfriend, or if he’d actually gone to any of the lectures “because if he was going to spend that much money on a degree that means jack shit then he better be at least attending!”_

Grantaire let Éponine sleep for a couple of hours, and resolutely ignored the pamphlets on the arm of the sofa for as long as his boredom would allow. He was still feel unsteady and weak – not quite trusting himself to get to the shower completely unaided – and didn’t want to wake the exhausted Éponine who had quite literally rubbed his back and been there for him for the last few days before she’d collapsed with exhaustion. _He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve Éponine’s friendship, and felt, if he was honest, entirely unworthy of such love. For someone so fierce and brusque, Éponine loved loyally and deeply._

That might have been the reason she’d not let go of Marius; so in love with the idea of loving him and the familiarity and comfort of his presence, she could barely see the way Combeferre had been blushing around her for months. There was no denying she was pretty, intelligent, and loving to those who gained her trust, but there was also no denying that her family life was a mess, she sometimes resorted to stealing, and she was liable to drink and smoke whatever was being passed around until she herself passed out. It didn’t really seem Combeferre’s style, but then who was Grantaire to judge? _He was in love with an actual marble statue: a beautiful human so inhuman when it came to emotion and tact and judgement, and who seemed to believe in the exact obverse of everything Grantaire believed in._

_In fact, no, Grantaire didn’t really believe in anything, and took great care to keep it that way - pulling himself back whenever he felt himself slipping into the mire of hope._

_He wasn’t going to fall for that again._

_What he’d overheard from Combeferre clearly meant nothing, and he wasn’t going to dwell on it and get his hopes up – not without the safety net of alcohol anyway, and he was hoping to not have to resort to that._

\-- 

It was about 5pm when Éponine awoke. She insisted on making them both tea and ordering in some Chinese takeaway. Grantaire rolled his eyes but didn’t protest. Most likely they couldn’t afford it, but he knew just as well that there was probably nothing resembling an adequate meal in their cupboards (it had been his turn for the weekly shop) and Éponine was damned if she was going out to get anything after the last two or three days. Combeferre may have been happy to exist on tinned tomatoes on toast for two days straight, but if she had to look at another tinned tomato again she’d probably cry.

Éponine looked deep in thought, and Grantaire didn’t want to interrupt her with that dangerously far-off look in her eyes. He just sipped from his mug, eyes flitting from tiny blank screen of the TV in the corner to the worrying silence of his close friend, usually gutsy in her outspokenness. The painful quiet continued until the arrival of the food. Grantaire watched Éponine hand over the money with uncharacteristic moodiness. Her hair was a mussed birds-nest and her tear-smeared make-up was doing nothing but accentuating the sharper lines of her face and the bruise-like marks under her weary eyes. Grantaire saw the delivery boy shoot her a worried look, before looking nervously at Grantaire too. They must have made a right pair: ill, pale, tired, upset.

She looked like she was aching to say something, but withheld until they were both sat on the lumpy sofa under the same blanket, eating out of cartons. The light was fading from the room as Grantaire poked his noodles and muttered finally, “Spit it out then. What’s wrong?”

Éponine’s head snapped up and she turned to face him. “What?”

“You’ve been looking like you’ve wanted to say something for the past half an hour or so now. What’s going on?”

“Well aside from thinking my best friend was going to drop dead on my sofa for two whole days...” Éponine rolled her eyes.

“You know me better than that! I’d choose a much classier exit than that, I’ll have you know. A club bathroom floor or something, at least! I’m not going to settle for this sad excuse for sofa. Do you know how sore my back is after this shit?” Grantaire winked, and Éponine let out a teary giggle.

“It’s Marius too. And Combeferre. And Enjolras.” Éponine admitted.

“Enjolras? Don’t tell me you’ve finally fallen for the statue’s charms?” Grantaire winked again. _He hoped Éponine couldn’t sense his faint desperation the way he could. Grantaire could see exactly where this was going – the same place as every other time, no doubt, with Éponine concerned and Grantaire overly defensive. Some shitty jokes weren’t going to change the outcome, but it was worth a shot delaying the inevitable, perhaps?_

“Don’t be a dick - no, of course not! I’d happily string him up by his hair in the Tower of London at this point.” Éponine muttered murderously.

Grantaire winced at the image, before continuing. He hoped Éponine didn’t notice the way his smile flickered for a second. “That’s dangerously monarchistic of you, ‘Ponine.” Grantaire continued to joke half-heartedly. “And what has Enjolras done to you that’s so bad?”

“What has he done to _me_? Look what he’s done to _you_! He does nothing but make you feel like crap, and then expects you to come crawling back to every single meeting like the masochist you clearly are! Your drinking wouldn’t be nearly this bad if it weren’t for him!” Éponine said heatedly.

“You can’t blame Enjolras for my drinking, Éponine. That is nowhere near fair. Everything I do is my own choice, even if the choice is clearly stupid.”

“You don’t even believe what they’re trying to achieve, and yet you continue going back to the meetings to get yelled at!” Her voice was thick with disappointment, and Grantaire _couldn’t bear it._ He could hear her getting angrier, fists balled, and wanted nothing more to hug her, run her a bath, make her something to eat and tuck her into bed. She’d had a stressful few days.

_She deserved comfort and happiness after a childhood deprived of both, but his selfishness and stupidity was just making an already difficult life more challenging for her. The guilt burned him, but the heat in her eyes and the tone to her voice just urged him on. She couldn’t just **say** these things about Enjolras without him even **trying** to explain what made him deserving of the disdain and the terse words. It wasn’t like Enjolras was fundamentally a bad person._

“Don’t you, see, Ép, that I wind him up? Hell, most of the time I do it on purpose, and I’m clearly bringing it upon myself! And they’re my _friends_ , Éponine, and they’re yours too, when you’re not so tired and upset,” he muttered forcefully.

“So the reason you unceremoniously rile _a certain blond_ up isn’t just because that’s the only way you can get through to him? That the revolutionary fervour doesn’t get you all hot and bothered? Don’t lie to yourself, Grantaire.” _Éponine’s voice carried too much pain and he wished he could do anything to make her stop._ “You don’t care a jot for whatever rhetoric is coming out of his mouth and he doesn’t seem to care too much what utter bile he spills when he shouts at you either. You shouldn’t allow yourself to be treated this way by _anyone_!” Éponine set down her food carton a touch too angrily.

“I make him angry – of course he says horrible things back! But I’ve made my own choice, haven’t I? So I have to accept the consequences!” Grantaire ignored the burn in his throat as he raised his voice defensively.

“And then you go drink yourself into a stupor! That isn’t accepting anything! It’s denial and pushing the problems away – certainly not facing up to them!”

_She was right, of course, completely and utterly right, but it didn’t stop it hitting a nerve._

Grantaire tried to swallow his hurt, but his tongue tasted bitter as he spat: “I said I was sorry! I’m fucking _trying_ , aren’t I? Not like you’re _trying_ to get over Marius _totally oblivious_ Pontmercy! No, you just swan around alongside him, pine painfully, and glare at Cosette even though you could easily be good friends! She’s a lovely person when you get to know her. If you’d just look away from their sickening cuteness as a couple for one millisecond you’d see how Cosette is desperately trying to befriend you and Combeferre’s basically looking at you like a god on earth!”

“Well of course you’d take her side! Is the blonde hair and blue eyes thing, Grantaire? Hm? I’ve known you since basically forever and still she manages to get to you too! I don’t suppose it really matters. Fuck-ups like me and you don’t get people to love us. That’s clearly just the way it is.” Éponine looked furious, blinking away angry tears, before getting up sharply, tearing the blanket from around her legs and marching into her room. Grantaire heard the slam of her bedroom door rattle the photo frame on the wall in the hallway, and he felt awful.

_He didn’t feel it needed pointing out that Enjolras’ eyes were actually grey._

Grantaire sat in the progressively darkening room with half a carton of congealing noodles until sleep took him. His legs were trembling too much to successfully get to his own room, and he had a blanket and a glass of water, so he’d be fine. He couldn’t see Éponine facing him until the morning at least. _At least she’d left the heating on – there’d been times when she’d been so furious that she’d clicked it off after he fell asleep in the hallway, sick on his shoes and blood on his knuckles._

_He knew he’d crossed a line. Éponine was as sensitive about Marius and he was about Enjolras, and although he never got to the bottom of the matter (instead electing to mock and shout and deny – yeah, nice one, Grantaire!) something had clearly happened to change the dynamic between Marius and her to something even worse. He felt awful. After all she had done for him; he had just flung it back in her face. This obsession was getting out of hand – for both destructivity and the ardent **need** for Enjolras._

_He knew why she was annoyed with Enjolras – heck, he was not especially happy with Marius after watching Éponine sob brokenly into his shoulder on and off for months when Marius and his girlfriend were particularly oblivious, sickening and mindlessly adorable –but that didn’t stop Grantaire’s compulsive need to defend him. Grantaire, of course, purposely took lines of arguments that Enjolras would despise, purposely interrupted meetings, arrived late, served it all with a wry crooked smile and deadened blue eyes. Of course it annoyed him. That was the point. If he couldn’t have passionate adoration, admiration, heck – even just friendship, then he’d settle for hatred. It was close enough, right?_

Grantaire’s stomach rolled, the taste of the Chinese he’d eaten suddenly acrid, and felt desperately like he was going to throw up. He quelled the urge and sketched with shaking hands until the sun began to break through the chink in the curtains. His fingers were twitching with the need for a drink, a cigarette – anything. 

_He hardly felt within himself – almost spectating the sickening scene. A trembling, pale, thin, stubble-ridden man, with hands shaking and eyes hooded, sketching an angel, over and over. Pages and pages, whole spreads, were taken up by Roman noses and grey eyes, golden curls and slender torsos, gesticulating hands, the curve of a jaw, the pinched smiles and the arch of a back. He could see himself, racked and obsessive, moving across the page with tender pencil lines that couldn’t deny a deep and sincere veneration. He could see his expression of manic adoration, the internal guilt and numbness. He could see the shaking ink-stained hands, the yellow-stained fingertips, the lank hair, the corrupted lungs, the damaged liver, the aching heart and the wild and roving eyes. He felt sick to his stomach._

_It was a blessed relief when he finally fell asleep; graphite smudged over his thin hands, and similar coloured smudges under his electric blue eyes._

He woke up with an extra blanket tucked around him, and hands that quaked so forcefully it frightened him.

\-- 

It was that morning (after the pair had made up with the use of pancakes, peppermint tea, and the proffered blanket) that Éponine was comfortable leaving Grantaire whilst she went to lectures, and the others began dropping by almost immediately. It was barely ten minutes since she’d sent the group text: ( **‘Ponine (9:46): am out most of the day with work & lectures. does sum1 mind dropping by 2 make sure R eats something and doesnt kill himself tripping in the shower?**) before Joly hurried into the flat carrying 3 textbooks and a large thermos flask. Bossuet announced his arrival by loudly swearing as he hit his shin on the coffee table. 

Grantaire was on the sofa, sketching a warrior queen who looked distinctly like Éponine, humming quietly to himself and ignoring resolutely how twitchy he felt. With no one else in the house, it would be _so easy. So easy to just walk to the closet, open the shoe boxes, – one of the places Combeferre clearly hadn’t looked – and savour the smooth slide of liquor._ It was far too simple, and his hands were quivering slightly in an effort to remain on the sofa, immobile, away from the alcohol.

“Shit! Ow, ow! Jesus Christ, R, have you sharpened this fricking corner since I was last here or what?” Bossuet exclaimed good-naturedly, taking a seat next to him on the sofa.

“Boredom does that to you, I’m afraid,” Grantaire countered languidly, looking slowly up at his friends from the page.

It was a beat before Bossuet snorted, still rubbing his shin, with his face breaking into a wide smile - happy that all the evidence pointed to Grantaire being a) sober, and b) his usual self.

“Oh, goodness! Are you okay? Did it break the skin?” Joly jumped into action, rolling up his boyfriend’s jeans to the knee and scrutinising the mark on his shin.

“Nope, I’m fine. Might have a little bit of a bruise, but, y’know, what’s new?” Bossuet laughed easily.

“If you’re sure,” Joly conceded, and turned to look more intently at Grantaire. “And R – how are you? You look tired. Is your sleep pattern disrupted? What sort of things have you been eating? You definitely seem thinner, and you were skin and bones as it was,” he fretted, clasping his hands together in worry.

“And a hello to you too!” Grantaire muttered sarcastically, “I’m doing okay. I really don’t want you to worry about me, okay, Joly?” he shot him a crooked grin, “I’ve read a couple of the pamphlets, and I’m doing okay. You didn’t have to come by if you were busy.” Grantaire eyed the large medical textbooks in his arms, probably from having just stopped at the library.

Joly followed his gaze. “What? Oh, no! These aren’t for me. I thought they might help you.”

Grantaire looked pointedly at the pile of textbooks, pamphlets and leaflets already on the coffee table that Bossuet had been cursing so vehemently. 

“Oh,” Joly sagged slightly on the sofa, and put the textbooks down next to his feet. He perked up quickly – adopting his usual wide grin - and nudged Bossuet pointedly.

Bossuet leant forwards, looking around his boyfriend’s slender form to Grantaire. He held the flask aloft with a triumphant grin: “Musichetta made her “get better” soup though!”

Joly demanded that Grantaire try some because it was like “heaven on earth – like being hugged from the inside, and the taste of sunlight and singing angels!”

Grantaire snorted, telling him he sounded a little like Marius, but Bossuet only nodded along with the gushing with a serious expression, and Grantaire would be lying if he said didn’t normally look forward whatever culinary concoction Musichetta came up with. She was one hell of an experimenter, and it was always either delicious or the most bizarre flavour combinations ever, which usually only Jehan enjoyed, taking the tub of whatever she’d created to the corner of the Musain and nodding along to whatever Enjolras was ranting about with his hands full of cherry cola cookies or a bowl of cucumber and lime soup. One memorable occasion there was marmite profiteroles. Grantaire still had the nightmares.

Joly offered to get the bowl for the soup and came back blanched, handing Grantaire a bowl and spoon silently and walking back into the kitchen, after grabbing what looked suspiciously like rubber gloves from his bag.

Bossuet rolled his eyes fondly, and the pair proceeded to talk about the progress of Bossuet’s football team so far in the season, as Joly pottered about in the kitchen, warbling along to some god-awful cheesy track from the radio as he wiped down surfaces with an antibacterial spray that Grantaire wasn’t aware he and Éponine owned. It was pleasant - there was no other word for it - just hanging out with his friends, talking about things of little consequence: sport, art, music, their friends, recent news stories, films they’d seen lately. Grantaire wasn’t aching for them to leave – was hardly aching at all - and he felt almost glass-like; like he _should_ be shattering, but that Joly and Bossuet’s care gave the illusion of wholeness and safety despite it. Probably it couldn’t last, but he still smiled honestly as he joked around with the pair.

Joly chucked a pizza in the newly clean oven (after wincing slightly over the salt content) and they all sat down and ate, laughing as the toppings on Bossuet’s slice fell off every time, without fail. The tomato sauce stain on his shirt was mostly ignored, but for Joly tutting fondly.

Grantaire should have felt terrible, almost insulted by their quiet kindness and what, in anyone else, would have seemed like pity, but he didn’t. The pair was easy company, content to chat mindlessly as they were to sit in silence, and their presence was enough to stop Grantaire’s eyes flicking to the door quite so frequently. Bossuet raised his eyebrows when they saw him do it for the sixth time in as many minutes, but they said nothing, for which Grantaire was eternally grateful. They weren’t treating him as broken, ill, volatile – they weren’t treating him any different to usual, and what should, and easily could, have been awkward with others, was surprisingly easy and comfortable with Joly and Bossuet. They were more than happy to let Grantaire sit and draw as they talked, and with the muted pop music on the radio, the dust motes dancing in the sun’s rays from the window (even if that made Joly shudder a little), the smell of homemade soup and pizza and the warm comfort his friends brought, it came as a surprise when Éponine stumbled back into the flat at 4pm, hair pulled back off her wind-reddened face and a take-away cup in her hands, after what seemed little more than an hour since the boys’ arrival.

She greeted Joly and Bossuet with a heart-felt, if weary, smile, and quickly pulled off her scarf and boots and slumped on the sofa with the three of them. She handed Grantaire the cup without a word, and the taste confirmed when he’d suspected: peppermint tea.

Bossuet flicked the tiny TV on and found a mindless comedy for the four of them to watch. Joly was chuckling before the punch line even came.

It was 7pm before the pair left, and Grantaire even managed to drag himself off the sofa to wave goodbye from the hallway, legs still a little quivery. As he saw his friends disappear out of view, Bossuet’s bald head all but luminescent in the glow of the streetlights, he mooched to the kitchen. He drank a glass of orange juice quickly, fingers drumming on the glass nervously as he did so, and Éponine gave an encouraging smile from the doorway. _Five days down, only the rest of his life to go!_

For the first time in a hellishly long time, Grantaire was in bed before 11pm, sober and not fumbling with someone else’s belt buckle as his eyes swam in and out of focus. He knew he should have felt proud, but all he felt was an overwhelming _nothing._ His day had been pleasant enough, deceptively lovely, and all that meant now was an evening of loneliness, self-hatred and hot sweats – craving sweet alcohol and even sweeter kisses. He managed to lie in bed for all of 10 minutes before growing restless. Grantaire felt tremulous and hot – the entirety of his skin itching as if there was a mass of insects seething and crawling beneath the surface. He felt a little sick, and regretted having chugged the orange juice down so quickly. He suspected it was hardly just that though.

Getting to his feet was difficult with one leg trembling intermittently, but he managed it, and pulled on his painting gear. He was going to be fucked if he stayed still or gave himself time to think. Distraction was definitely the key right now.

He painted until he felt unable to stay standing, swirls of reds, golds, blues, oranges and greens, warm browns, and soft pastels – painting his friendship group for the fantastic amalgamation it was, with their bright smiles, hopeful expressions and a rose-tinted view that came only with sincere affection – before falling asleep, face down, still in his paint-spattered overalls. He woke only once, held his hands up to the square of lighter darkness that was his tiny window, and noted with a small smile that they were not shaking quite so badly. He may have felt restless and hot and leaden, but perhaps all of Joly’s pamphlets were right. Perhaps this was progress.

\-- 

He awoke to eight texts from Jehan. 

**Jehan (8.23): I’m so sorry R!! Only just saw Éponine’s text.**

**Jehan (8.24): I was with Courf – he took me to a gallery and for dinner as a distraction I think. I didn’t have my phone on bc it might have gone off in the gallery and all the snobby arty types that you hate so much would have skinned me alive. We wouldn’t have wanted that. Who would bring you food and braid your hair and kick your arse in capoeira?**

**Jehan (8.25): I’m really really sorry though. How is the prince of my heart this morning anyway? ;)**

**Jehan (8.42): You weren’t on your own were you? Yesterday, I mean?**

**Jehan (8.45): Joly and Bossuet were there? I’m so sorry I didn’t come over. I could have brought some tea.**

**Jehan (9.37): I made you flapjack and everything.**

**Jehan (9.49): Is it okay if I come over today? Pls R I need to see my favourite cynical artist**

**Jehan (10.27): I’m on your doorstep, arsehole. Let me in.**

_Well that explained the incessant knocking noise. He was under the impression that was coming from his pounding head._

He sighed. Even peering at the phone screen through slitted eyes resulted in a painful white-light glare and even with his eyes closed the light seemed to be piercing right into his skull. Grantaire blearily rubbed his eyes with shaking hands and fought the feelings of nausea that racked his body when he stood up. 

_Even with the way he felt now, he knew he couldn’t deny Jehan anything really. He just hoped Jehan wouldn’t mind sitting with him holding a sick bucket and box of tissues. Or alternatively whipping him up a rum and coke or something._ The thought made Grantaire’s legs tremble even more violently.

 _His proclamation of progress may have been a little hasty and overzealous,_ Grantaire supposed.

_Gosh, he was turning into Enjolras!_

Enjolras, who clearly wasn’t that worried, as suspected, because he’d heard nothing from him, absolutely nothing - zilch, nil, nada - and only knew he was still alive and well (as opposed to the skeletal figure that Combeferre had worried about) because of the huge number of recent ABC blog posts that were signed merely with the letter ‘E’. 

Éponine had told him how badly Jehan had been worrying though, and Grantaire didn’t want to worry the poet any further. He seemed to be feeling awful that he’d not been there for him the day previously _(which, of course, was silly – Grantaire was more than happy that Courfeyrac and Jehan had gone out and had a good day, even if he himself was probably going to have to sit and tremble on the sofa for the next week)_ so Grantaire was content to be sat and subjected to head massages, tea, nature documentaries, arm wrestles, having lines of poetry drawn onto his skin, and fierce tackle-hugs from Jehan if it made his friend feel less guilty. _He knew his friend had lapsed into his silent melancholy whilst he himself was convulsing merrily on the sofa, and felt guilty for having prompted it._

He tried to ignore the fact that he was literally looking like the “addict” stereotype personified – grey skin, bags under his eyes, thin to the point of sickliness and trembling like a leaf. He was wearing the overalls he’d fell asleep in, and his curly hair was lacklustre and greasy. His hands were crisp with dry paint, smeared with red and green up to his forearms, and nails bitten to the quick. 

_There was another habit then, to add to the collection. He could stack his vices like Jenga blocks by this time, and wondered idly what it would be that would make the tower of his self control fall._

_Jesus Christ, he was happy that Enjolras couldn’t see him like this. He had even more reason to be despised. He repulsed himself, let alone Enjolras, and now he was ill and trembling and submissive, having lost the (albeit obnoxious) confidence that alcohol sometimes afforded him. He was still the usual cynic, still was thoughtless and craving of mindless hedonism. He still idolised Enjolras, still painted and revered and drove him up the wall. Just now with more sweat and vomit and trembling._

_How fucking delightful._

Jehan burst into the flat with a blinding smile and clashing patterns so bright that it hurt Grantaire’s eyes to look at. He had green and blue tartan trousers a white ditsy floral print shirt that looked distinctly like it may have come from the women’s section of a store originally. His nails were navy to match, his braided hair was coiled up with a green ribbon, and he had clompy workman’s boots on.

 _Well, why not screw up gender stereotypes,_ Grantaire supposed. _All **he** did in the way of self-expression was paint increasingly incriminating pictures of a man who despised him, and tried to ignore and repress his burgeoning feelings._

_Of course he believed everyone could express their sexuality however they wanted, but that didn’t mean he found it easy, especially without the guise of alcohol. He spent hours recreating the soft curviness of women in Renaissance paintings as a teen, chatted women up in bars, even took a few ladies home from time to time. He wasn’t gay. So why did he feel so attracted to a man? And such a beautifully feminine man at that? It was like his mind wanted him to think that his feelings weren’t legitimate, that he was confused or had something wrong. If he really **was** into men too, why had he latched onto someone so androgynous? He’d not said anything to his friends, but of course Éponine had known, and the rest of Les Amis had figured it out soon enough, despite his firm insistence that he liked girls and when had they ever known him bring a guy home? For months after he had probably overemphasised his conquests, flirted with women in full view of Les Amis with a leering expression – anything to stop Courfeyrac winking at him. He knew it wasn’t wrong – he’d been with guys a couple of times in college – but surely that was just the experimental stage most kids went through. Wasn’t that stuff meant to pass?_

_It made him even more ashamed of his paintings, ashamed of his track-record with thin blonde-haired ladies, ashamed of his inability to be true to his feelings without being drunk off his face, and certain that his whole messed up personality was deserving of ridicule and disdain. He was unnaturally attracted to a man who hated him, and could barely admit it to himself. Not to mention the alcoholism, self-hatred and dead-end nature of his degree and future career._

Jehan took one look at Grantaire stood in the hallway and pulled him into a tight hug, setting the promised flapjack down on the counter.

“I’m so glad you’re okay. Go and sit down, I’ll make tea and we can watch some god-awful film or something,” Jehan flipped his braid over his shoulder and breezed into the kitchen like it was his own.

Grantaire, for the first time in a long time, melted into the sofa and allowed himself to be cared for without complaint. He told himself it was to make Jehan feel better, but he’d be lying if he said that feeling wanted and worthy and worth bothering with wasn’t nice for a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, I'm very nervy about my alcoholism portrayal - I know Ernest Hemingway said to write what you know but I'm clearly just ignoring that and googling everything instead! 
> 
> If anything seems wildly unrealistic, simplistic, generally wrong, please let me know. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	8. E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Their knees were practically touching and he’d never felt so conflicted – he wanted so to be repulsed or disappointed or dismayed, and he was, he was, but he still wanted to press closer and let Grantaire know that it was alright, they were still friends, he wouldn’t judge him because of this."
> 
> In which Courfeyrac interrupts the peace a lot, Grantaire opens up, there is some cheap booze, and Enjolras begins his foray into the world of romantic interactions with pretty awful consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! 
> 
> I've been writing furiously in the last few days, and this has been the result, so I hope it's at least marginally enjoyable!
> 
> As ever, kudos, comments, criticisms and corrections are very appreciated and outright recommended for a more enjoyable reading experience! ;) 
> 
> These characters are entirely the property of Victor Hugo, and the views expressed here are not necessarily my own. 
> 
> As a particular note for this chapter, I just want it known that I do not want to be seen as romanticising addictions or any other issues and I highly doubt that 'Enjolras' would either, but at the same time, attraction and love are crazy things, and I have written these internal conflicts in to express such? So, yeah, please don't be too mad about that. 
> 
> Mentions: alcohol, alcoholism, withdrawals, dubious medical decisions, hellishly unhealthy relationship dynamics, repressed feelings and Enjolras trying to navigate human interaction (because I feel that totally needs a warning in this situation, bless him!)

He only really learnt that Grantaire was back on his feet from Courfeyrac. 

_Despite pestering Combeferre to ring Éponine to check how Grantaire was doing, Combeferre wouldn’t, blushing and telling Enjolras that if there were any problems he was sure she would have called. The third or fourth time Enjolras asked, Combeferre merely raised an eyebrow and dug his phone from his jean pocket, showing Enjolras a text that he himself had not received. It wasn’t a surprise, he knew Éponine didn’t trust him, especially not with the fragile feelings of her friend, but that didn’t make him feel any less sour about it._

_It seemed he was the only one to have been left out of the group message. Clearly neither of them wanted him there, and so he tried to respect that despite his own worries, and if he detoured on his way home from lectures a couple of times via Grantaire and Éponine’s street, well, then, that was just coincidental._

Enjolras was just making coffee for himself and Combeferre when Courfeyrac had burst into their flat, already much too chirpy for just past 10am on a Saturday.

“Honey, I’m home!” he called, kicking the door shut behind him and shrugging out of his coat, and Enjolras tried not to wince at the sheer volume. 

_He loved all of his friends, of course he did, loved their drive and opinions and kindness, loved to just sit in their company, listen to their thoughts and bask in the sense of camaraderie and familial love so often absent from his life otherwise; he just wished, in that moment, that Courfeyrac was a little less loud and boisterous about it, especially since Enjolras had been up until 3am finishing a paper and updating Les Amis de l’ABC’s blog, and hadn’t yet had his first cup of coffee._

Courfeyrac kicked off his shoes and settled happily upon the sofa, seizing what was supposed to be Combeferre’s cup of coffee and spooning sugar into it with a blissful grin. “Oh, Enjolras, you shouldn’t have!”

Combeferre shuffled into the room, rubbing his still-damp sandy hair with a towel, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “Ah, Courfeyrac! I thought I heard your dulcet tones.” He took one look at his own faded ‘Science Museum, London’ mug clutched between Courfeyrac’s hands and sighed, “Please tell me that’s not my coffee.”

Courfeyrac grinned cheekily. “Well not anymore, no!” he smiled. 

Enjolras pushed his own mug towards Combeferre across the work surface and re-filled the kettle to make himself another mugful. Combeferre may have looked to his own faded mug with a hint of longing, but smiled as he accepted Enjolras’ anyway.

_He, unlike Combeferre, did not have a particular mug he drank his coffee from, but he’d be lying if he didn’t harbour a slight preference for the “Give me libertea or give me death!” one that Bossuet had given him as a Secret Santa gift a year previously when he had tea._

It was as Enjolras was piling his usual three sugars into his coffee (“Well he needs _something_ to make him sweeter,” Courfeyrac always laughed) that Combeferre looked up, struck with a sudden realisation.

“Aren’t you meant to be with Jehan?” he asked, looking concernedly towards Courfeyrac.

“Ah, a tragic tale!” Courfeyrac told them, in a choked voice, “he has left me for another man!” Courfeyrac put down his coffee and pretended to sniffle quite convincingly into the sleeve of his shirt.

“Oh yes?” Combeferre asked, utterly deadpan, “What was it you said to finally piss him off?”

Courf looked up sharply. “Excuse me?” 

Even Enjolras’ mouth twitched at the feigned look of offence on his friend’s face. 

“Actually, Jehan turned on his phone this morning and saw the text from Éponine, and has pretty much raced around to see Grantaire.”

Enjolras looked up from where he was carefully pouring milk into his mug at that, and was faced with a clear look of smirking triumph from Courfeyrac.

_Yes, okay. The days of worry and silence **had** been eating at him, which was stupid – utterly stupid. Grantaire was a friend, yes, but an infuriating one at that, and not one that he’d ever been close to, really. He was too cynical – a truly exhausting person to be around once he got going in an argument, bombarding him with fact after fact, quoting everyone and their mother like he was trying to pull Enjolras down with his words, and serving each volley with a slightly mocking smile that made Enjolras want to somehow wipe it off his face. Enjolras had faced opposition every step of the way in starting up ‘Les Amis de l’ABC’ as a student society, and he didn’t need such negativity from within his own circle too. There was enough pessimism and enough problems in the world, without Grantaire adding to any of it._

_The other man thought he was idealistic, deluded, couldn’t see the world around him, but how could he not, when Grantaire painted it in such garish, grimy colours? He was usually right, of course he was, and was much too intelligent to not be, but that didn’t mean no progress could be made at all! People were fundamentally good, and it was all a matter of education and tolerance. Education was an important part of everything they did, and heaven knows that Enjolras was still learning._

_He finally knew why he was finding it so difficult to sleep – even more so than usual – spending days rearranging the ABC blog, updating and referencing articles and deleting some of Courfeyrac’s more suggestive jokes. It was guilt. Over what, he couldn’t pinpoint, just a general feeling that he could have, and should have, handled everything concerning Grantaire and his addiction better. It was not like he’d ever been supportive until now._

_This knowledge didn’t help his sleep schedule much, but at least most of his school work was done, even if most of it was written at various early hours of the night whilst running almost entirely on very sugary coffee._

_As Enjolras came into the kitchen each morning looking more and more worn down, Combeferre’s lips just pursed more tightly together, and his expression morphed into something Enjolras’ couldn’t quite decipher._

_It looked a little like expectance._

_Enjolras still didn’t know what he was expecting him to deliver though, and didn’t know what Courfeyrac seemed to be waiting for now, either._

Combeferre just coughed pointedly after a moment of silence, and Courfeyrac took the hint, cleared his throat and carried on with his anecdote.

“The gallery and dinner was a success though. Jehan looked like he was enjoying himself, anyway. He’s not been very happy lately – a lot of time thinking silently, doodling and writing sad poetry –I guess he’s really worried for Grantaire - aren’t we all? - but I don’t like it. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s beautiful, everything he writes is beautiful,” Courfeyrac smiled hazily, “but he seemed much too cooped up in his own thoughts. I thought getting out somewhere might help.”

Combeferre smiled back, eyes warm. “I’m glad. Sounds like you both had fun.”

“Yeah, and he stayed the night,” Courfeyrac waggled his eyebrows jokingly, with a pointed wink, “Does mean that Jehan missed the text though, and he looked like he felt super-guilty. Hence he is at Grantaire’s, and I am here, gracing you with my presence.”

“And what a blessing it is too,” Enjolras muttered, still a little bitter at the coffee theft.

“So glad you agree, Enj,” Enjolras narrowed his eyes dangerously, “-jolras,” Courfeyrac finished, with another slow-spreading grin.

“So,” Combeferre began, “have you heard anything from Grantaire? I’ve not heard anything since I left apart from the odd symptoms update text from Éponine. Is everything okay?”

“I’m afraid I’m nearly as in the dark as you on this one,” Courfeyrac shrugged, “Joly and Bossuet went around yesterday, apparently, and aside from being twitchy as heck and not having much of an appetite, he seemed alright, according to Bossuet. Joly would probably say he’s on the brink of death, but y’know. Jehan texted me about 10 minutes ago and said he’s looking much thinner and more tired than last week. Apparently he also feels very nauseous and has refused Jehan’s flapjack, which I think, personally, is almost a crime. Bad tremors too, apparently.”

“That degree of fluctuation sounds fairly normal,” Combeferre looked thoughtful, “as with anything there will be days that are better and days that are worse. You have to remember that this is only the sixth day and for nearly three of those days Grantaire was very much out of it anyway. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he’s feeling very unwell for a while now.”

Enjolras swallowed awkwardly, caught off guard by the lump in his throat. His coffee now tasted overly sickly sweet and cloying and so he got up and poured it down the sink. Combeferre shot him a measured look of apparent confusion and concern. “Maybe I’ll drop by later and check everything’s how it should be.”

Enjolras’ returning look was so heart-stoppingly grateful that Combeferre smiled, a hint of satisfaction in his warm brown eyes.

“Anything to see your _lady-friend_ , eh, Combeferre?” Courf winked. 

“I really do not know what you mean,” Combeferre sniffed, with a quirk of the lips.

Enjolras just frowned. _This evening, he would go with Combeferre this evening._

\-- 

As it turned out, Courfeyrac also insisted on coming along to see Jehan and Grantaire. 

Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta had also dropped by with soup, which Musichetta was now wiping off the carpet, with Joly assessing their sheepish-looking boyfriend for scalds.

Jehan was chattering happily to Grantaire as he painted his toenails a pearlescent purple.

“I can’t believe I’m putting up with this,” Grantaire grumbled, as Jehan started on his other foot.

“That’s one good thing about you being ill. You can’t run away from my pampering,” Jehan smiled.

Courfeyrac quickly squeezed onto the sofa next to Jehan and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. He kissed up his jaw as Jehan batted him away playfully, telling him to stop distracting him before Grantaire had purple polish all over his feet.

Éponine walked back into the cramped living room holding aloft a choice of three films before she stopped dead, staring in shock at Courfeyrac sat in her spot on the sofa, Combeferre standing bemusedly still in his coat and scarf in the middle of the room, first aid kit swinging from his limp hand, and Enjolras standing just behind him, embarrassed at his sudden feelings of intimidation.

_He could address crowds, stir up students, write to political leaders, and, in the end, confront his own father, but that didn’t mean he was comfortable in Éponine and Grantaire’s grimy flat, surrounded by now-expectant friends and Grantaire staring blankly up at him from the nondescript sofa._

Éponine’s eyes were cold when she looked at Enjolras, and he saw her knuckles whiten around the DVD cases. He tried not to gulp too obviously. _He was so unwelcome, he was so unwelcome – why did he insist on coming over?_

_Grantaire._

_He came for Grantaire._

_Breathe._

“What are you all doing here?” she demanded. 

“I just was dropping by to check how you and Grantaire were doing, and it looks like Joly had the same idea,” Combeferre smiled gently. 

“And the others?” 

“Leisure visit?” Courfeyrac said, with a sweet smile as he redid Jehan’s plait.

That seemed to appease Éponine for now, despite the fact she huffed as she slumped down into the lone armchair. Musichetta patted her arm as she passed to go into the cramped kitchen for more paper towels. Joly pronounced Bossuet “scald-free” and they rushed after Musichetta to help (or possibly just make-out against the kitchen counters; you could never be sure with those three).

Combeferre shrugged off his coat and sat down on a stool nearby, placing his first aid kit near his feet, and smiling as he watched Jehan and Courfeyrac bicker good-naturedly as to whether pink or orange nail polish would suit Courfeyrac’s skin tone better. Enjolras ended up on the floor. It didn’t really matter, except that now Grantaire was pretty much in his line of view, and he couldn’t even pretend he wasn’t staring. 

Grantaire’s hands were shaking, he could see it from here, and there was an old washing up bowl placed near his feet. _Nausea?_ Courfeyrac hadn’t been lying when he said he’d heard that Grantaire had lost a lot of weight. He never seemed to eat much, or indeed healthily anyway, and now with him not drinking so much, and feeling so sick and unsettled all the time that his body found it difficult to keep foods down, he was unspeakably frail. He was living off soup and toast, and his sickly-thin frame showed it. Gone was the lean muscularity of a dancer and a boxer, and in its place, a shadow.

Enjolras didn’t know how he didn’t see this coming; how he didn’t see the man’s clothes hanging looser on his frame, Éponine’s expression grow tighter with worry, Joly fussing over him more. As ever the cause came first, and now he could see, first hand, what his selfishness had, in part, done.

Jehan and Courfeyrac were still jostling one another on the sofa, but Grantaire’s eyes seemed far away, ignoring the pair tickling one another and squabbling. His wide blue eyes seemed to be brighter, larger and darting around more than usual. He looked caged. _Enjolras didn’t know if it was his presence that was making the man feel so uneasy in his own home, or the general discomfort and pain that came with withdrawals._

Combeferre had engaged Éponine in conversation about the films she still clutched to her chest, and she seemed to brighten slowly. The trio had returned with a large couple of bowls full of popcorn, the cheap microwave stuff, but popcorn nevertheless, which Musichetta had dug out of the cupboard, but Bossuet’s t-shirt collar was also askew and Joly had lipstick on his cheek, so Courfeyrac still had reason to perform his signature eyebrow wiggle.

Éponine kept shooting Grantaire worried looks as he looked increasingly distant, but he nodded dazedly towards her and so she put whatever DVD she’d plucked out into the machine. Enjolras didn’t care for watching a film, for being here at all if it was causing Grantaire so much discomfort, but Combeferre looked happy enough, now sat beside Éponine and sharing a bowl of popcorn. Jehan and Courfeyrac, and Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta had their arms around one another’s shoulders and waists, and Enjolras just sat and picked at his fraying shoelace, as Grantaire’s looks towards him grew more and more uncomfortable and his hands increased in the severity of their tremors.

He was battling valiantly to appear normal, but his eyes were unfocused and his hands jittery as he reached for popcorn that he barely choked down. With shaking hands he attempted to roll a cigarette, spilling more tobacco onto the lumpy sofa and onto his dirty jeans than he got into the paper. Tucking it behind his ear, he stood, and announced quietly that he was going to go smoke on the fire escape, and they didn’t have to pause the movie, no really, he’d seen it lots of times before, he’d be fine, before walking unsteadily out of the room. If it wasn’t for the shaking and pallor, Enjolras would have guessed that Grantaire had been drinking, with the way he stumbled and almost slurred his excuses.

_Immediately Enjolras had the urge to go after him, to explain himself, to apologise, to listen and understand and learn; he wanted to be good, he wanted to help and he didn’t want Grantaire’s stunningly blue eyes to keep roving to him like he was afraid or waiting for his verdict. Enjolras had built up this reaction after nearly two years of disdain and coldness and judgement and now he was trying even more ardently to break it back down, and cursing himself for having ever hurt his friend so much in the first place. Things like this were hard to unlearn._

He waited ten minutes before feeling like it was acceptable to excuse himself.

“I’m, uh, going to check if Grantaire’s okay. He’s been a while, and uh, I don’t know, he might be throwing up or something,” he said, brushing off his jeans as he stood.

Éponine shot him a look that sent a very clear message of warning and Combeferre looked at him hopefully, like he really truly believed he could perhaps not fuck this up. Enjolras felt sick, and he felt pathetic for the way his leg jittered beyond his control and his tongue felt numb with things he couldn’t possibly say. 

_He was going to apologise._

Courfeyrac shot him a look of ‘good luck’ as he shut the door behind him.

_He was going to be understanding._

He swore he could hear something from Grantaire’s room.

_He was going to listen to what Grantaire had to say._

He didn’t think to knock on Grantaire’s door.

_He was going to help him._

He pushed the door open slowly, and found Grantaire with his back to him, rummaging frantically around in his precarious wardrobe, on his hands and knees, almost retching as he swallowed down something liquid, seeming viscous and a dangerous synthetic red.

He was almost gasping in an effort to drink as much as he could as quickly as possible, and didn’t even seem to notice Enjolras come in. There was another bottle, as empty as Enjolras felt, on the ground beside him.

“Grantaire, what’re you-?” 

_As he turned, Grantaire’s eyes,_ Enjolras noted, _seemed duller, not the bright and beautiful blue he’d come to recognise through the grille of the cell and from the back of the Musain, no, these were hazed by the spirits he’d so quickly imbued and deadened to the expression of shock and horror and no, Grantaire, please, what are you doing, on Enjolras’ face._

“Whassa'matter, sweetheart?” Grantaire drawled, lips the colour of whatever foul-looking liqueur he’d been drinking. Maybe cherry? His cigarette was perched between them, having a sly indoor smoke, as if keen to give in to all his vices at once – have a clean sweep in his lapse of control. He’d taken off his jumper, having flung it onto his unmade bed, and Enjolras could see the fragility and the defensive submission in his stance, despite his seemingly blasé words. The bottom of his shirt was frayed and he fiddled with the loose threads as he sat with his back against the open wardrobe door, half-full cherry-flavoured alcohol bottle clenched in the other hand.

The slight swaying, the slurring and the heavily-lidded eyes, along with the empty bottle beside him only confirmed Enjolras’ fears.

“Didja really ‘spect anything different, Apollo?” Grantaire sighed, his eyes falling shut, as if tired, _so tired_ , of trying not to disappoint.

His hand flexed like a caress around the bottle in his hand, and Enjolras just stood, watching the smoke coil from stained lips and tattoos stain and coil up wiry arms. _He couldn’t seem to look away, to stop the blatant self-destruction as it happened in front of him, and he didn’t want to find this beautiful, didn’t want to think about it in terms of metaphors, didn’t want to glorify this wreck of a man that Grantaire had become, but hurricanes are both destructive and beautiful and Enjolras just wanted to let Grantaire do him no good._

He blinked forcefully for a second, unable to believe his own reaction, and watched as Grantaire’s expression fell even further. _Every nerve, every inch of self-preservation, told him that this was a bad idea, and that it really shouldn’t have taken this for him to realise that he cared, heck, that he liked and respected Grantaire behind all the arguments and disdain._

“You... you don’t disappoint me, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, and _it was so weak, so weak, and not at all what he wanted to say,_ so he just sat down, back against the opposite wardrobe door.

“Well, tha’s good, I guess. Just myself, and the others, and my family, and my father, and my professors then. I’ve always been a disappointment, ‘Jolras. You of all people must know that. I can’t even punch a man straight.”

“Please, just, just don’t worry about the night in the cell, okay? It wasn’t the first time and I doubt highly that it will be the last time I get held overnight. It wasn’t your fault. It was mine; I should have got out of the way, not got involved, let the police and ambulance crew do their work and worried about my friends more.”

“’S on your record now though.” 

“Along with the other two times then,” Enjolras sighed. 

_Why did this seem to matter to him so much?_

“Mmkay,” Grantaire murmured, “whatever you say,” and passed the bottle towards to Enjolras. 

“What’re you-?” Enjolras asked, puzzled.

“Jus’... just take it off me, please. Go and give it to one of the others, drink it, pour it down the sink, whatever you like. Just take it off me.”

“Are you, are you sure? What if you... need it like this again?” Enjolras asked, unsteadily.

“Think there’s more if I get desperate,” Grantaire mumbled, “but I didn’t wan’it to come to that.”

“You’ve done so well to make it this far, Grantaire,” Enjolras told him softly, “and this isn’t a failure but a setback, you are strong and you can make it this far and further, again, okay? Please don’t give up because of this.”

Grantaire held the bottle out to Enjolras, “Please just, can you take this? Please?”

_His eyes were pleading as well as his voice, and how could Enjolras say no?_

Enjolras took the bottle from Grantaire’s warm hand, calloused from painting and sculpting and fighting, and tried so hard not to look into the man’s eyes, afraid of what he’d see there, the dullness and haze and hopeless honesty that Enjolras hated that he could pull from the other man. _Their knees were practically touching and he’d never felt so conflicted – he wanted **so** to be repulsed or disappointed or dismayed, and **he was, he was** , but he still wanted to press closer and let Grantaire know that it was alright, they were still friends, he wouldn’t judge him because of this._

He settled for a touch to the knee and Grantaire inhaled like he couldn’t bear his touch at all, taking the cigarette from his lips and letting it dangle languidly from his thin fingers, and Enjolras immediately was struck with the fact that they’re weren’t on an even footing here, and they were not friends, _not really_ , not when Grantaire was sober and Enjolras was his usual dismissive self.

Grantaire stared like he’d never seen Enjolras before, and perhaps he hadn’t, this close. _As he unscrewed the bottle cap, Grantaire’s eyes following the movements with a hint of longing that Enjolras really couldn’t ascribe to the situation in hand, he really couldn’t think, he just needed to let Grantaire let this go and if this is what Grantaire needed then this is what he would do._

“I... I don’t really drink,” Enjolras whispered, and he was sure he could hear his heartbeat, or maybe Grantaire’s but he wasn’t sure and Grantaire was so close to him and his lips were cherry and smoke and popcorn.

He could smell it on him, and Enjolras had to lean back, to tear himself away from the blueness of his eyes and back to the task in hand. His legs were actively shaking now, and they were _so close, so close_ to one another that he could smell the alcohol on his breath and could now see the pain in Grantaire’s eyes because he’d pulled back even though _no part of him had wanted to_ , but Grantaire was drunk, _so drunk_ , and he himself couldn’t be thinking straight, not with Grantaire’s blue eyes on him and the cherry liqueur in his hands he now so desperately needed to swallow down just to burn out the image of Grantaire’s lips hovering so close to his.

_Oh god, oh god._

_They’d been so close, literally sharing breaths and eyes fixed on one another. He felt like a fly in amber, trapped in Grantaire’s gaze, his brain working sluggishly slow as he leaned back, away from Grantaire, widening the gulf between them. Grantaire looked briefly hurt, then resigned. This should never have happened – he was just trying to be his friend, and his own selfishness had come into play again, thinking only of the slow-boil of the attraction that Grantaire had somehow managed to light, possibly at Courfeyrac’s party, possibly before, and that Enjolras had only just kind of noticed._

_Combeferre and Courfeyrac were probably right, and quite possibly he’d been pushing these feelings down for a while. Enjolras had always thought Grantaire smart, if infuriating, and had noticed the muscular litheness, the rakish smile, the curls, the eyes – of course he had! – but it had never affected him so until now._

_Oh god, he just needed to stop this. Grantaire was vulnerable and drunk and not thinking properly and he was not taking advantage like this._

Enjolras raised the bottle to his lips and tried not to think of Grantaire’s own stained smile.

_It tasted like he expected: synthetic cherry and burning, and it was low quality unbranded stuff, cloying and grimy, but it was also oddly sweet and reminded him of those sugary childhood medicine flavours and maybe that’s why Grantaire chose it, for the memories of someone giving a shit about him in his childhood, or maybe it was just because it was cheap and would get him drunk quickly, but either way, Enjolras was swilling it back in a way that he knew he shouldn’t, and was this what it felt like, the knowledge that his actions were dangerous and doing them anyway, the self-destruction?, because if it was, he now understood, because anyone could have walked in and see him and Grantaire sat knee-to-knee sharing two bottles of cherry liqueur, and it wasn’t even 8pm but his head was swimming and Grantaire’s eyes were so blue._

Grantaire’s mouth was agape, watching in horror as Enjolras gulped down the liqueur cradled in his hands, “Did you just...?”

“Yes,” Enjolras told him; his legs were no longer shaking, but they likely wouldn’t be cooperating at all in a few minutes.

“Can we just... jus’ stay here a sec?” Grantaire asked, eyes closing slowly and his head falling forward onto Enjolras’ shoulder.

“Mmm,” Enjolras agree quietly, “whatever you need.”

“Why are-” Grantaire yawned widely, breaking up his slurred words, “why are you being so nice to me?”

“I’m just... I have been awful to you for so long, and it has been so undeserved,” Enjolras answer honestly, “I just want to help you. I know what I did last time was um... the, the wrong way of going about that but” Enjolras paused, searching for the words he wanted in his rapidly-dulling brain, “I just want to be the friend I really should be to you.”

“M’kay, don’t feel like you have to... you know, just because of the drinking thing. I would hate for this to just be... like pity, y’know, or because you feel bad,” Grantaire admitted, slurring even moreso than moments before.

“Can you believe I’ve never even seen your room or your artwork or anything, Grantaire, and I’ve known you for like... two years now?” Enjolras murmured, finally able to truly look around at the surroundings now that Grantaire seemed not to have the potential to immediately lapse into his destructive tendencies again.

His walls were a dark green, and propped against them, or hung up, were many many canvases. There was a small window, which was a little cracked, and a door leading to a rickety fire escape where Grantaire was initially going to smoke before the urge to give ib became too strong. The wall behind the headboard of his bed was contained a mural, a background of white on which handprints, clearly many from his friends, and quotes, lyrics, passages of philosophy and poetry and stupid puns and jokes were scrawled or pressed. Over this was a large ‘R’ painted in black. The canvases around the room were often based on many of their friends, often in mythical scenarios. Jehan was painted as a nymph, Courfeyrac a satyr, Feuilly was a bowman, Éponine was a warrior queen, and there was plenty more besides. _He couldn’t see any of him, and he tried not to be dismayed at that fact. Maybe his face was just no good to paint, or maybe Grantaire only painted people he actually enjoyed the company of._

In the centre there was a picture of Les Amis de L‘ABC together, and if Enjolras had any sort of appreciation or knowledge of art hidden deep within himself he wished he could now display it, could comment something profound about Grantaire’s work. It was beautiful and he could see the adoration with which Grantaire had clearly painted his friends. Enjolras regretted fervently every time that he had ever told Grantaire that he clearly didn’t care about them or their causes and so he should just leave instead of wasting their time with cynicism. Grantaire _did_ care, if only for the _people_ and not the cause, and he was talented and creative and strong and he could tear his arguments to shreds without batting an eyelid; his hair smelt like smoke and something like pomegranate, his eyes were sky blue and bright with emotion when not clouded with intoxication, and he was so smart it hurt. _Enjolras had been so wrong and it had taken **this** to see it._

 _He felt sick in himself, and it wasn’t just the cheap liqueur making his stomach turn and his head swim._ Grantaire was still leant against his shoulder and they were still pressed knee-to-knee facing one another and he was _so close. Enjolras could barely think straight and he wasn’t just he could blame it all on the drink._ Grantaire’s head was a comforting warm weight on his shoulder, and Enjolras thought he could see the tremors in his hands lessen, as the cigarette burnt rapidly down between between his fingers in the spaces between Grantaire’s infrequent inhalations. He smelt of smoke and cheap synthetic cherry and pomegranate shampoo and a little like sweat and charcoal and it was taking everything Enjolras had to not to just press his face into Grantaire’s hair and hold him.

“Gr-” Enjolras’ voice came out a little gruff, and he hoped his little forced cough hid it, “Grantaire.” 

“Hm?” Grantaire looked up at him, eyes wide and with barely a rim of blue around the pupils now. He looked utterly gone now, boneless and trembling.

His breath was coming fast, and so he took a steadying drag on the cigarette wilting between his fingers to control himself. _Whether he intended to be close enough to ensure Enjolras inhaled his exhaled smoke, Enjolras couldn’t be sure, but it was so intoxicating and dangerous that his eyes were swimming and he just couldn’t think._

He didn’t know what was going on, only that Grantaire had some weird magnetism that Enjolras was just drawn to, and probably had always had it but it had somehow gone ignored, and when he smiled he was beautiful and he was so intelligent and eloquent and caring and _how could he never have realised all this?_

“I, I think we should go back to the others now. They’ll be wondering what’s going on and whether you’re okay or if we’ve killed one another.”

Grantaire let out a dry chuckle, “Well, there’s still time for that if you want.”

“Mm, no. I can barely think right now, let alone argue with you. You’d win for sure.”

“More practice arguing drunk, I guess,” Grantaire conceded.

“No,” Enjolras sighed, his head falling onto Grantaire’s shoulder, “you’re just better.”

Grantaire just scoffed quietly before the pair fell into silence. 

Enjolras peeled away first, standing up shakily and offering his hands to Grantaire to help him up. It was as he pulled Grantaire up gently that he knocked into the wobbly wardrobe and heard something clatter behind it, as if something had fallen over. 

“Sorry,” Enjolras murmured, “let me just get that for you a sec.”

“No, no, really it’s fine. Don’t worry,” Grantaire sounded kind of breathless but _really, it was no bother picking up something that he had knocked over, not when Grantaire was so unsteady. It wasn’t a problem._

_The flicker of fear on Grantaire’s face really should have stopped him, but Enjolras was so eager to help him and be a good friend. It was pathetic really, and he could feel the faint wisp of near-hysterical desperation he so often attributed to Marius bubbling up in his throat._

Enjolras soon found what had made the noise – a canvas that had fallen half out from behind the wardrobe and was laying painting-down on Grantaire’s grubby carpet.

The “please, don’t-” died in Grantaire’s throat as Enjolras picked it up and turned it over. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

_It was him._

_He recognised the hair and the clothing – his favourite red jacket, for one – but it was a glorified, idealised version. His profile was haughty and regal, with a proud nose and jaw, curls grazing his collarbone and his full lips turned up in a passionate greeting. He was painted in glowing reds, yellows and golds, and Grantaire had rendered him so radiant and disdainful that he appeared utterly unattainable and righteous._

_That was all flattering enough, hint of cruelty aside, and wouldn’t have been a problem except for clearly idealised and unattainable beauty that he knew he quite honestly didn’t possess._

It was the other figure in the painting that caused the shocked inhale of breath from Enjolras.

_Grantaire himself was knelt in the shadows, unnoticed by the painted Enjolras, his pale hands curled around a bottle of wine. He was painted in blues and blacks and greens, each shade dim and blurred into one another. His clothes were unkempt – a dusty and paint-blotched green waistcoat that Enjolras had seen Grantaire wear once or twice to the more important occasions in Les Amis’ social calendar - and his hair appeared matted and unruly. His skin was sickly pale, his limbs thin and curled in upon himself. It was Grantaire’s expression that horrified Enjolras the most, however. It was worship, veneration, admiration, reverence, and whatever you called it, it was the same hopeless yearning and pain and hunger – and aimed at the painted version of himself._

_Was this ...was this how he saw their friendship, their relationship?_

_Enjolras felt like he was going to be sick._

“I told you, Enjolras, I told you not to look! Why couldn’t you just listen to me?” Grantaire's voice was monotone now, eyes flinty with anger and filling with tears.

“I, I-” Enjolras began.

“Admit it,” Grantaire demanded, “admit you’re disgusted. I can see it in your face.” His voice cracked on the word ‘disgusted’ and Enjolras just couldn’t talk, couldn’t form sentences or words at all. _His eyes were just liquid hurt and with every second that stretched out longer, there was more pain in Grantaire’s expression. It was like he was crumbling._

_Of course he wasn’t disgusted – he had wanted this too, hadn’t he?_

_But definitely not like this. Not with such inequality and vulnerability and instability._

“Say it!” Grantaire insisted. Enjolras could see a tear clinging to his dark eyelashes. He still had the canvas in his hands, and he could feel the edges digging into his palms where he clenched around it.

“R, I don’t-” Enjolras began.

“It’s... it’s fine. Forget it!” Grantaire spat, tearful.

 _He was going to punch him;_ Enjolas just knew it. _Grantaire knew how to punch a man when he wasn’t hammered or suffering with withdrawals, no matter what he said, and probably even when drunk and trembling he could do a fairly good job at it. He was going to punch Enjolras in the face and he probably (definitely) deserved it for making Grantaire feel this way. Oh god. He was despicable._

It was in the eternity before Grantaire took a step forward that Combeferre and Éponine rushed in and stood horrified in the doorway, staring at the pair.

“We heard shouting - is everything okay?” Éponine asked, worriedly, turning to face Grantaire.

Grantaire just let out a sound that was more of a whimper than any vocalised word, and Éponine’s eyes widened. It was then that she saw the canvas in Enjolras’ hands and was screaming at him before she had even covered the short distance between her, and holding Grantaire in her thin arms, to do what Enjolras should be doing: comforting him. The anger seemed to drain from Grantaire instantly, and he was hanging limply in Éponine’s embrace. Enjolras was fairly sure he saw tears, and his hands were still shaking furiously.

Enjolras distantly felt Combeferre’s grounding hands on each of his shoulders, and stared into the warm brown eyes of his closest friend. “Enjolras, speak to me, are you okay?”

“N-no. I messed up everything.”

Combeferre turned over his shoulder and addressed Éponine. “You handle Grantaire. Leave Enjolras to me. I think they’ve been drinking. Be supportive and reassuring. This isn’t failure, okay, whatever Grantaire might be thinking right now,” he said, and rushed Enjolras out of the room, eyes full of concern.

Combeferre led Enjolras to the bathroom, and his legs wobbled beneath him. The lights in the hallway were over-bright, and nowhere near as pretty as Grantaire’s eyes had been. Combeferre waited until Enjolras was perched on the side of the grimy bath before settling in front of him, comforting hands still resting on his shoulders.

“Tell me what happened,” he murmured.

“I went in and he was drinking. He told me to take it off him and then we nearly... we nearly kissed. I drank the rest of the alcohol and we talked for a bit. I knocked something over behind the wardrobe and went to pick it up and... and it was that. It was that picture,” he heaved out, tongue thick and words slurring.

“Breathe, I need you to breathe for me, Enjolras.”

“I’m breathing,” Enjolras gasped.

“Okay, ssh shh, deep breathe in, okay, and out. Good. Okay, carry on like that. In, out.”

“Combeferre, please, I’m... I’m fine.”

“You’re really not. What’s bothering you? Was it the kiss? Did you not want to?”

“No, I... I did. That was what was bothering me, a bit. I really... I really wanted to. But he was drunk and he would have regretted it. I didn’t... I didn’t want to be like that. Consent... consent is really important. But that picture, Combeferre! He... he painted me. Like that. And him. Grantaire, he just. Combeferre, please, it’s not like that, is it?” Enjolras gabbled drunkenly.

“Sssh, ssh, no. It’s okay, Enjolras,” Combeferre reassured him gently, and his soft words were ultimately meaningless and trite in the face of what Enjolras had done, but he appreciated the effort. _Just as long as Grantaire was okay, and didn’t hate him for his prying and the way he’d treated him in the past and how they couldn’t even manage to be friends when they were actively **trying.**_

Enjolras found himself drunkenly crying and hugging his best friend in a grimy bathroom for what would be the first and hopefully, the last, time in his life, and throughout it all, his head was just filled with images of tears in the terribly blue eyes of Grantaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written under the influence of, and heavily inspired by, this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tOO9dFuTlLk so I felt it needed a mention. I expect listening to the song and reading this alongside would work pretty well if you're into that kind of thing. Yep, so thank you to the Arctic Monkeys there! ;) 
> 
> As usual, I'm aware of my complete lack of experience and knowledge when it comes to addictions, withdrawals and the like so please let me know if this is terribly unrealistic or OOC or whatever else. Thank you!
> 
> Also a big thank you to everyone reading, commenting, leaving kudos, and generally being super-lovely. :)


	9. R

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Bathed in drink, a womanising wretch in the eyes of anyone who didn’t know him well enough, intelligent but lazy, pithy but convoluted and rambling, uncaring but hyper-emotional, slick and uncouth, grubby, desperate, rakish – he was, in short, a lovesick drunken mess, but at least a functioning one, and one who kept the ‘lovesick’ part satisfactorily hidden beneath an inch-thick facade of ‘cynical arsehole’."
> 
> In which Joly and Éponine are supportive friends, Grantaire takes responsibility for his own health and one meeting is attended as another is missed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! 
> 
> Sorry for taking such a long time getting the next chapter up. My only excuse is just that life got hugely in the way with exams, uni applications and general stuff to do left, right and centre, as well as cripplingly horrible (fanfic)writer's block. 
> 
> But now summer's here, hopefully I'll be a bit more consistent. (Or at least not take months and months and months to update?) Here's hoping! 
> 
> The characters are property of Victor Hugo and crudely reanimated by me. The views expressed are not necessarily my own.
> 
> An enormous thank you to MissWarina for all her notes, essays and help regarding the AA meetings section. I am eternally grateful. 
> 
> Kudos, comments, criticisms, corrections, prompts, ideas etc are incredibly gratefully received. 
> 
> Mentions in this chapter: alcohol, alcoholism, panic attacks, unhealthy relationship dynamics, agonising over sexuality and feelings of low self-esteem.

Éponine’s eyes searched his face worriedly as he hung limply in her embrace. Her small hands were rubbing his back through the thin shirt in a nervously comforting gesture. She seemed to have got over her anger almost as soon as Enjolras had left the room and was instead focussed entirely on comforting him. Grantaire didn’t know whether he’d have preferred anger to this soft quiet understanding anyway. This wasn’t Éponine. Éponine felt strongly and loudly, and he was desperate to feel some of her disappointment, some anger - anything but this hollow emptiness he’d been feeling since he caught sight of the canvas in Enjolras’ unsteady hands. 

“You want to tell me what happened?” Éponine asked gently. 

“Not ‘specially,” Grantaire muttered, gently pushing his way out of the embrace that was beginning to make him feel altogether too caged in.

He needed to get out of her arms, this room, preferably the flat. Most of his friends were sat in the dingy living room watching whatever DVD they’d chosen – he couldn’t remember, something he’d seen dozens of times no doubt. All he could really remember was Enjolras’ lips hovering so close to his, the look of horror and disgust in his eyes as he forced his gaze from the painting and the wobble of his legs as Combeferre ushered him from the room. Enjolras had been pretty much the drunkest Grantaire could remember him being, and he himself hadn’t been faring well either. _What was he thinking?_

_He was going to go and have a cigarette – that was it!_

Enjolras had been shooting himself increasingly worried looks from where he sat on the floor and it was making him jittery. He had been feeling nauseous and shaky, and the sharp grey eyes focussed on him as he tried in vain to concentrate on the movie and choke down some popcorn hadn’t helped. He needed to get out of that room. Feeling increasingly antsy, with the screen and the people around him fading to a noise not unlike static, he felt caught in Enjolras’ gaze. He needed an excuse to leave. He needed to get out of there right _now._

His hands shook even worse as he rolled a cigarette and he wasn’t even sure he could blame it all on withdrawal tremors. 

The plan had been just to have a quiet smoke on the fire escape and that plan only changed when he felt the crack of the bottle seal break beneath his trembling hands and a _need_ so burningly strong that he couldn’t help but tip back his head and gulp like a man denied water for days. 

The voice in his head blurred to a muted hum and all he could feel were the waves of relief washing over his deprived tongue as he knocked back the only thing that could make it all _stop._ The liquor had been strong and cheap but awful, but not awful enough to prevent him drinking it. He really couldn’t afford to be fussy, and the desperation made it taste all the more like nectar and ambrosia and less like cloying synthetic cherry. 

Part of him knew he should have felt ashamed when Enjolras saw what he was doing, kneeling shamefully on his bedroom floor, unshaven, trembling and drinking cheap spirits greedily down with an expression not unlike bliss. He didn’t feel ashamed, just resigned.

_This was always going to happen._ He just wished it hadn’t been Enjolras; that it hadn’t been with the one person Grantaire didn’t need help with appearing useless in front of. 

Undoubtedly he thought badly enough of him as it was. He interrupted all his meetings, turned up late, distracted people from the cause, smelt of cigarettes and booze and paint and tainted Les Amis’ image. He was a scruffy layabout who actually didn’t care all that much about politics and actually rather a lot about making Enjolras’ eyes get that flinty quality they got when he was furious and his ears redden as they often did when he was wound up or embarrassed. Grantaire had never really been one for sensible priorities anyway.

“I’m... I’m going to bed,” Grantaire muttered in Éponine’s general direction, turning away from her and flinging the canvas off his bed and onto the floor in front of the wardrobe.

He caught Éponine wincing as it clattered to the floor. “Don’t be silly, R. It’s only half eight. I don’t want you to be on your own. I can ask the others to leave if it makes you feel better.”

“No, no. I don’t – don’t want them to know what happened.”

“But-”

“Let them enjoy their film, Éponine. Someone deserves an enjoyable evening.” Grantaire flopped onto his bed. 

Éponine frowned. “I’m not leaving you in this state. I can’t concentrate on a film if you’re in here like this – I’ll be worried sick.”

“Sound like someone’s Grandma,” Grantaire muttered drowsily, face down on his grubby duvet. 

“Won’t you tell me what happened?” She asked. 

“Mnhhh,” he groaned.

“Let me try that again,” Éponine murmured softly, “please will you tell me what happened and what I can do to help?” 

“Take all the booze out of that cupboard, never let me set foot outside this flat and never let me look Enjolras in the face again?” Grantaire moaned, face heating for reasons he wished he could forget.

“What did you do that was so bad this time? I’m sure he’s used to you insulting his politics or waxing lyrical about his hair.” Éponine was aiming for light-hearted but only managed to highlight the way that he’d managed to fuck up even further this time – had really outdone himself in the stupidity stakes. Grantaire’s face seemed go even redder as he carded a hand through his unruly curls in frustration.

He just groaned his answer into the duvet cover.

“What was that?” Éponine asked, confusion in her voice. 

Grantaire lifted his head, face red and eyes prickling with heat and embarrassment, and fixed her with a mournful look.

“What?” she repeated.

“I nearly... I nearly kissed him.” Grantaire’s expression flared for a moment in his remembrance, before falling in supposed disappointment. In his drunkenness, his countenance seemed even more exaggerated and distressed.

“You what?” Her eyes widened a fraction. “How did Rapunzel take that?”

“How’d ya think?” Grantaire eyes were red.

Éponine just waited, expression getting increasingly concerned. 

“He pulled away, of course. I don’t know what I was –hic- thinking. Why would someone like him deign to be with someone like me? Why would he st-stoop, demean himself, join us mere mortals for someone so debased and-”

“Sh-shut up!” Éponine muttered angrily. “Just shut up, Grantaire. We - we are absolutely not having this conversation again, and especially not when you’ve been drinking. You’re a good friend, a good-looking enough guy,” Grantaire just snorted at that, “and you’re a fucking catch when you’re not being so drink-sozzled and maudlin. Just shut up. Tell me where you’ve hidden the fucking stuff and then let’s go get you cleaned up.”

“Wardrobe, sh -shoe boxes at the back,” Grantaire murmured, choosing not to argue with Éponine’s tone of voice. 

“And you’re certain you want me to get rid of these?” Éponine asked, dangling the bottles from her fingers. 

“Well, by all means give them to the others to drink or somethin’. You jus’ have to take them away from m-me.” Grantaire muttered sadly.

_Once again he’d ruined everything. It was going to be only on special occasions, maybe a glass or two per week, and once again he couldn’t trust himself. He was weak, weak and fallible and pathetic and it was no wonder Enjolras had looked so disgusted. He was disgusted with himself._

As if being able to read his thoughts (or more likely, his expression) Éponine smiled sadly at him. “This isn’t a punishment, R. You did really well getting to this far, but it’s slip-ups like these that cost you all your hard work and so I think it would be easier for you to just eliminate the temptation by not having alcohol in the house.”

“Mmm, you’re probably right. I don’t want to stop you drinkin’ if y’wanna though, ‘Ponine,” Grantaire mumbled tiredly.

“Don’t you worry about me.”

“Someone should worry about y-you. You spend enough time –hic- worrying about me.” 

“I just want you to be okay. Now, don’t you worry about Enjolras. He, likely as not, won’t remember you going in for the kiss, alright? We need to concentrate on getting you in a better state, and speaking to Joly about meetings or something.”

Grantaire let out a barking cough. “Meetings?” 

Éponine just rolled her eyes. “We’ll talk about this in the morning. Let me just get rid of these bottles and get Rapunzel, Charming and the others out of our flat and then I’ll help you get ready for bed, okay?”

“Not sure Charming was Rapunzel’s prince, ‘Ponine,” Grantaire slurred distractedly, “and I don’t need help putting on pyjamas.”

Éponine just flapped a hand dismissively. “Perhaps he wasn’t, but I defy anyone could get between Enjolras’ and Combeferre’s soulmate bond,” she sighed almost wistfully.

“Are you saying-?”

“I’m not saying a thing, R. He just-” she let out a long breath, “forget it. You’re hardly sober and I’m beginning to wish I’d just kept my gob shut. Just wait here a sec.”

Éponine hurried out of his room, various coloured bottles jangling in her hands. Grantaire collapsed back onto his bed and tried desperately not to think of Enjolras’ expression as he’d pulled away from him. Or, worse, his expression when he’d looked up from that goddamned canvas. _Why hadn’t he just destroyed it? Washed over it? Gouged into it with his craft knife? Anything?_

He groaned into the duvet cover once again, and hid his reddened face in the crook of his arm. _Good God, he needed to stop this - to stop the drinking before he did something even stupider than trying to kiss their chaste and sublime leader and painting pictures that showed the true extent of his veneration._

Much too gentle hands assisted him in getting out of the tangle of his jeans and t-shirt and into pyjamas, before helping him into bed. The mattress dipped under his weight and despite this grounding, the room seemed to spin nearly as violently.

“Thanks ‘Ponine,” Grantaire slurred softly, pressing his stubbled cheek against her soft hair.

“No problem R, now sleep this off and we’ll speak about what we’re going to do about everything sometime tomorrow.”

“Whatta we gonna do tomorra?” Grantaire murmured, pulling the duvet right up around his chin, eyes wide and puffy in the gloom.

“Sssh, just go to sleep, okay?”

“’Kay, ‘Ponine. Thanks for everything. You are such a good friend to me and-”

Éponine just chuckled. “Now I know you must be wasted. You don’t usually tell me I’m a good friend until sometime around 2am. For such a cynical bastard, you sure are soppy as heck!”

“Whuh-? I’m not s-soppy! I’m-”

“Pssh, it’s okay R. Go to sleep now, okay?”

Grantaire just mumbled his drunken agreement into the mattress. 

\--

It wasn’t unusual for Grantaire to wake up with a headache, though recently it had been the pulsating sort of withdrawal-induced pain, and not the seriously hung-over kind. _Fucking fantastic._

He sat up and dry-retched in the general direction of the bin Éponine had kindly left out for him, clammy hands searching the bedside table for anything vaguely painkiller-shaped with his eyes still screwed shut against the light cutting through the slit in the curtains.

Grantaire groaned, and, in his usual post-drinking hangover ritual, allowed the memories of all the questionable decisions he’d made the previous night wash over him. _These_ just happened to be a little more questionable than usual.

Waking up with a plethora of bruises he didn’t quite remember getting - often from backing Bahorel in some dispute or another; from tripping and stumbling his way home, hands and knees grazed, a hole in the knee of his jeans and gravel scuffed into his skin; from being backed against a wall and letting some attractive stranger bite at his lips and jaw line – these things he could handle. Finding his shoes covered in the grease of whatever takeaway his drunken self had fancied, lipstick on the sheets, and a forgotten split lip wasn’t so bad. He could withstand his lips and the inside of his mouth being chewed and sore – mementos of illegal substances he may or may not have taken – and it was even okay if the comedown made him shake with the sweat and glitter and shame. Even waking up with someone vaguely golden and blonde and tall, tangled naked in his bedclothes, was survivable, despite whatever pitying looks Éponine might give him over morning coffee.

There was a large difference between this and letting Enjolras see his true feelings, however well they were usually hidden by being the most obnoxious opposition to Enjolras’ beliefs and visions possible. Bathed in drink, a womanising wretch in the eyes of anyone who didn’t know him well enough, intelligent but lazy, pithy but convoluted and rambling, uncaring but hyper-emotional, slick and uncouth, grubby, desperate, rakish – he was, in short, a lovesick drunken mess, but at least a functioning one, and one who kept the ‘lovesick’ part satisfactorily hidden beneath an inch-thick facade of ‘cynical arsehole’.

Not that Enjolas understood that. He lived for those terms he threw about with such gusto in the meetings, lifeblood made up of capitalised concepts like Reason and Freedom, whereas Grantaire - he only understood love and liberty. Lower-case. As long as he wasn’t confined and was free to go where he wanted and love who he chose (even if he wasn’t willing to admit his feelings out loud to any of his friends, he knew they respected his choices) then he was happy enough. A social justice and politics group would hardly work if they had a problem with Grantaire considering himself straight aside from childish fumblings at school and promptly rethinking everything after meeting a man anyway. It wasn’t his friends that were the issue. It was _him._

Years of repressing anything feminine (because apparently art and ballet were intolerably girly) and numbing his attraction to guys until he could convince himself that it wasn’t there were hard to suddenly overcome, and _of course it didn’t count if the guy had long hair and was lithe and gorgeous and-_

It wasn’t a problem. It was completely and utterly not a problem and he respected everyone’s life choices, apart from, it seemed, his own. _He was such a fucking mess._

And now – now he had to get up, shower away the feelings of regret and grime, listen to Joly and Éponine worry incessantly at him, and try and continue his life like a relapsing alcoholic who hadn’t just tried to kiss the unobtainable object of his two-or-so-years-worth of affections whilst in a drunken haze of smoke and paint and cherry poison. _Urgh._ Not to mention the canvas, conveniently face-down on the carpet, which was an only slightly more subtle and sophisticated version of “I LOVE ENJOLRAS SO MUCH” scrawled across a public bathroom wall, which had been displayed to the unfeeling man himself. _Great, just great._

It took forty minutes to psyche himself up enough to move from out under the defensive fortifications of his covers.

\--

As suspected, Joly had brought a multitude of leaflets, fanned out across the table like some hideous deck of cards. He sat with his thin hands in his lap, and a doctor-style satchel on the floor beside him, sipping a mug of tea that Éponine had handed him.

“Well?” Grantaire said, raising an eyebrow as he flopped onto the sofa gingerly, cradling a glass of water and alka-seltzer in his hands. His hair was wet and clothes rumpled like he’d chosen them from where they’d been draped over a chair or piled on the floor. Unsurprisingly, that was pretty much exactly what had happened.

Waking and walking blearily to the living room, he’d found Éponine and Joly already seated and deep in conversation. He groaned not unlike the living dead, and turned around back into the hall. He just left them to their little chat, most likely about his unhealthy coping mechanisms, his drinking habits and his general reckless debauchery and went for a shower. Sure, it was for his own good, but it still distinctly felt like being gossiped about. He had stood under the stingingly hot spray, scrubbing as if to take off a layer of skin, and wondered if anything might make him feel cleaner. His body was pale and sickly-looking with a slight alcohol-induced paunch, spindly limbs, acne scarring and scraggly hair and stubble borne out of pure laziness. He felt disgusting, and knew he didn’t look any better either. Already drowning in self-consciousness, the idea that two of his closest friends were sat just a room away and judging his _admittedly appalling_ lifestyle didn’t help one jot. He felt sick.

Joly cleared his throat nervously and shot a glance at Éponine. It was clear he didn’t think Grantaire was going to react well to whatever he was about to say. Éponine smiled back reassuringly and clapped Joly on the shoulder.

“Well, ah, Éponine and I were, uh, talking-” Grantaire nodded a little stiffly, and Joly coloured, “and we think that perhaps it would be better to gain a larger support network, um, because no matter how much we all want to help you, and, um, I mean of course we will try and assist you every step of the way and everything, none of us, as far as I know, have been through this. It might be helpful to meet people who have, who can help you know what to expect, have experience with the issues of addiction and can form a, uh, more supportive network. Or at least a more knowledgeable one.”

Grantaire grimaced slightly as he took another sip of the alka-seltzer. “So what you’re saying, beneath all the ‘supportive network hoo-haa’ is that you think I should be going to AA meetings?”

He knew he could tell that they could see how unsure he felt about the idea of that. It was like the ultimate confirmation of addiction – _he literally had to stand up and parrot it out to strangers that he was an alcoholic, for Christ’s sake!_ – and despite the obvious need to face up to those realities, it was daunting as heck.

Joly blushed again. “Well, ah-”

“Yes,” Éponine nodded. “That’s pretty much what Joly is saying.”

“But I don’t think-”

“I’d be happy to come with you to one of the open sessions first off,” Éponine continued, “the nearest one is like three tube stops from here in a church hall on Tuesday evening, and there’s biscuits and everything. It will be totally fine.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow sceptically.

“Look,” Éponine said with a sigh, “if it really doesn’t work out, we’ll try something else. It’ll just stay between us so the others wouldn’t know about it. What have you got to lose?” She flashed a grin, and he knew he’d lost.

Joly was peering hopefully over his mug of tea

“Okay, okay. I’ll give it a go - but if it’s all preachy and religious, then you can forget it.”

“Sure thing,” Éponine agreed, and fist-bumped Joly, much to his initial confusion.

\--

Tuesday rolled around much too quickly for Grantaire’s liking, and 5pm found him desperately trying to flatten his hair in the bathroom mirror, and trying to smooth the creases from a (now slightly too baggy) shirt that he hadn’t worn in months. If he was going to be going to one of these bloody meetings and shake and sweat through people preaching at him, he’d rather look at least vaguely presentable. He wanted to look like he was _trying_ to get better. Ideally, he wouldn’t look ill at all, instead like one of the university students or writers who sat in on these things for research, but he knew that hope was long gone. This was just damage limitation. If he was going to be an addict, he was going to at least not be the stereotype of one: not one that was swaying and throwing up, stinking of booze and with ripped and dirty clothes.

In truth, he was terrified of what everyone was going to think. He was probably a little too young to be in such a bad state, and whilst his life hadn’t been cushy by any stretch, he wasn’t living a nightmare either. He wasn’t exactly homeless or being continually fucked over by the government or habitually oppressed. He didn’t live in a warzone. He was a white, lower middle-class male. He should have it fucking _made. Did he really have an excuse for all this?_

Éponine and he were planning to go to the open session at 6.30pm, and if he felt comfortable enough with the set-up he was planning to stick around for the closed session after, the ones with the actual addicts and problems and not just the students and do-gooders. He just prayed Enjolras didn’t get a hold of this as a new cause. He probably wouldn’t like the exclusivity anyway.

_Oh fuck._ He was trying not to think about him – nor how _stupid_ he’d been just nights ago – and so far it wasn’t going so well. Sure, it made a pretty good argument against his drinking, _not being in control of his faculties to the point of trying to make out with a man that hated him and somehow managing to open his soul up to disdain on countless occasions now in front of said object of affection_ , but it was also just depressing as fuck.

He couldn’t even remember the conversation from Courfeyrac’s birthday really, but remembered Enjolras looking uncomfortable and getting him a glass of water as he all but draped himself all over the poor guy. That was probably proof enough of him acting ridiculously _again._

_When were they actually going to leave a conversation where he didn’t then beat himself up for acting like a total dick in front of the man he was so eager to impress? Admittedly it was a strange way to impress someone – continually arguing with them – but on particularly good nights, Grantaire was sure he saw a bit of grudging admiration even as Enjolras yelled back. When he was in control of his tongue, his limbs, his whirling thoughts, it wasn’t usually quite so bad._

This was quite a large argument in sobriety’s favour. He wasn’t himself when off his face with drink, and once past the amusing tipsy stages, he could see the concern growing in his friends’ faces as he acted less and less like himself and more and more destructively.

i>Enjolras was hardly a reason to stop drinking, but being the fucking _sap_ he was, he couldn’t exactly say he wasn’t a contributing factor either. _Of course, becoming sober or trying to fight his addiction wasn’t going to solve everything, just as painting an apple gold wasn’t going to stop the core being rotten, but maybe he’d be an outwardly better person. Maybe Enjolras would hate him less. Maybe he’d just make better arguments, and maybe he wouldn’t slur them. It was hard to say, but it was safe to say this was something he needed to do. It was something he could have done with doing a long time ago, and definitely couldn’t avoid facing up to any longer._

He was fed up of being so dependent on drinks, of planning his next one, of skulking about behind his friends’ backs, of wasting so much time and energy and money on his next fix, of drowning his problems instead of confronting them, of being perpetually drunk or else hung-over and neglecting all the things he used to love in the quest for another shot of vodka. He felt pathetic, Enjolras no doubt thought he _was_ pathetic, and only this thought process and the ever-present distraction of Éponine prevented Grantaire from sprinting from their flat and into the nearest bar or off-licence.

The tube journey was spent in terse silence. Éponine had put on a nice shirt (admittedly one that Musichetta no longer wanted and so had passed on) and was picking at the skin around her nails, nervously glancing up to catch Grantaire’s eye and smile every now and again. Grantaire was feeling a little resentful, but also feeling guilty for feeling resentful, and so tried to pull his lips into an approximate sort of smile in return.

_Oh god, oh god. Everyone here probably knew. He felt so weak and pathetic, weaker still that he was considering getting off at the next stop just to catch the tube back again in the opposite direction and to spend the evening laid up under his duvet and away from judgement. He was missing a Les Amis meeting for this, though in light of recent events, he wasn’t sure he would have gone anyway. Still though, he’d rather be there right now: the judgement of one man was probably less than a whole tube carriage-full. Sure, most of them were studying newspapers or tapping intently at their touch screen phones, but really, it felt like they all knew. They could all **tell.**_

Éponine leant across the aisle to pat the back of his hand, and gestured with a quirk of her head that this was their stop. He allowed himself to be led, and tried to decide whether to attribute the feelings of nausea to withdrawals or, worse, cowardice.

Éponine kept her grip on his sleeve until they were safely through the turnstiles and up the steps. Grantaire hadn’t ever stopped at this station, despite priding himself on being quite the adventurer and connoisseur when it came to destinations and to drinks. Either way, it looked much too nice a district to be somewhere he would usually frequent. The houses were all several storeys and with frighteningly groomed gardens. He spied one or two with mini wellington boots and buckets and spades and scooters – the usual detritus that came with having children – and felt increasingly out of his depth. He had inadvertently waltzed into middle-class suburbia a handful of tube-stops from the hell-hole of their flat, and Éponine was leading him through the freshly-painted fences and climbing-plant trellises, smiling as if completely unruffled.

She halted where the main road branched to another, and Grantaire could see the message boards outside the church from where he stood. He wondered if it was too late to back out, if all these smarmy bastards in their big houses were peering around their curtains to see the ragamuffins stood on the corner and just _knowing_ why they were here. His right knee jittered nervously.

“I get that you’re nervous, Grantaire, but no one is going to judge you. You don’t have to say a damn word to anyone if you don’t want to. We can just observe. If you hate it after this 90 minute session then we’ll go, no questions asked, okay?”

“Okay,” Grantaire nodded, trying to get his breathing a little more under control.

“Hey, hey. Breathe for me a sec, R. We don’t want you going in on the brink of a panic attack. That’s it, and again.”

It took a few minutes for Grantaire to feel like he could walk through the doors of the hall without gasping for air, and he just stood lifelessly as a women made some insipid comment on the weather to Éponine as they walked towards the door. Grantaire stared intently at the crinkled leather handbag in her hand as Éponine gave a sympathetic nod about the prospect of it raining on the woman’s cousin’s wedding day – anything to stop him focussing on his shaking knees – and then they, as a trio, went in.

\--

The first meeting went largely as expected.

They took a seat near the wall, Grantaire eager to appear as inconspicuous as possible and refusing to meet anyone’s eye as they made their way across to the edge of the room, as Éponine got up to make them both a cup of tea. Being an artist, and used to observing detail, Grantaire watched the goings-on with interest, if not a little fear. Two men in their fifties were clapping on another on the back and laughing, riling each other gently about the progress of their local football teams.

“That recent game with West Ham though? 2-0, you have to admit that’s poor!”

“Just because the Gunners have won their first cup in nine years doesn’t mean you have to get all cocky, Tim.”

“Hey, we’re beating you in the league too. Where are you? Sixth? – I know it’s not all about trophies!”

“Get outta here! You’re only two spots above us. It could all change. How’s Marie anyway? Doin’ alright?”

he and Éponine were definitely in the right place, weren’t they? – but also helped shake his jitters somewhat. He hadn’t expected it to be like this. He hadn’t thought it would be like this _at all._

Stood by the tea and coffee making facilities - right near where Éponine was currently queuing to use the milk jug in true English fashion, of course - a group of four women, between late twenties and forties if Grantaire had to guess, were talking together, sipping coffee from polystyrene cups held in their polished hands. A curvy ginger woman in a floral shirt was scrolling through pictures on her iPhone, apparently of her sister’s baby if the cooing and snatches of conversation that Grantaire could hear were anything to go by. One of the women was in turn-up jeans, a Breton top and looked as if she’d bake all her bread from scratch. She had a heart-shaped face and a straight brown shiny bob of hair, and was probably, Grantaire thought, the furthest thing from a typical alcoholic he’d ever seen. Another was in a suit jacket and her blonde hair was still pulled back in a bun as if she’d come straight from the office, but they were still chatting happily as a collective. The woman with the leather bag greeted them with a smile as she helped herself to coffee. _This… this wasn’t what he’d expected at all. They all seemed so **normal** , so innocuous and benign and beige. None of these people seemed like they’d struggle with alcohol. Some of them looked like they’d never have touched a drop to begin with!_

A couple were stood leant against the opposite wall, clasping hands tightly and talking quietly together, looking nearly as frightened as Grantaire felt. One of the men who had been talking about football smiled and greeted them cheerfully, and the pair seemed to lose some tension from their shoulders as he engaged them.

There was a gaggle of at least six students stood near the front of the room, a couple with notepads under their arms, joking mildly and shooting looks around at regular intervals like they weren’t quite sure of the etiquette for the situation since they were guests – clearly here to learn about the organisation and so willing to be as sensitive and indeed _sensible, as possible - but also enticed by the relaxed atmosphere into a kind of casual easiness._

There were plenty of plastic chairs set out in front of the coffee and tea making facilities, but most people, dribs and drabs arriving even as people were taking a seat, were stood talking and greeting people they seemed to already know happily. Grantaire was a little surprised, shocked even, at how comfortable and almost proud everyone seemed. There were no ancient men in grubby string vests, looking dejectedly at the ground as they viewed the wreckage of their happiness and relationships and businesses that they had lost to drink like Grantaire had feared. In fact, everyone seemed fairly cheerful, and when the sponsor of the meeting came to the front of the room, everyone headed for the rows of chairs, still smiling, appearing almost eager to hear when the man had to say.

The sponsor was a man in a brown suit jacket and jeans who stood smiling good-naturedly from the front of the room. He had a foppishly styled fringe, glasses and a large smile with what looked like almost too many white teeth for his mouth, talking for a short time about his life since he “got clean”. He looked more like a university lecturer or a teacher than a former alcoholic, and something of his mannerisms reminded Grantaire of Combeferre. The couple who had looked so scared before the meeting had started were looking more and more at ease as the introduction and welcome progressed.

It transpired that the man had worked in business and had originally started drinking due to the stress of his job. It helped him relax and wind down, and it wasn’t until his girlfriend left him and his work began to suffer that he realised that his habit was anything beyond the usual couple of drinks that everyone else seemed to be having on a Friday night. His job began to get in the way of his drinking, and eventually he was fired when he turned up still drunk after a particularly heavy evening and made up on the spot and slurred his way through a presentation he was supposed to have prepared the previous week. But he still hadn’t realised he was an alcoholic. He drank mostly socially, with only the odd couple at home, and he didn’t drink Tuesdays, and he could stop whenever he wanted, so he wasn’t an alcoholic, right? That’s what he had thought anyway.

Admitting he had needed help and coming to the AA had been the hardest decision of his life, but it had also helped him turn his life around, and had now been 11 years sober.

His story was to the point but not harrowing, encouraging but not patronising, and although Grantaire felt like the students sat in the seats around him might be eyeing him between frantically taking notes, it wasn’t hugely uncomfortable like he’d feared.

No one was preaching or praying at him, everyone was very cheery and looked hale and hearty. No one looked like they could be drunk, or at least not that he’d seen. Éponine and he sipped tea from polystyrene cups and listened to the smiley man talk about the virtues of distraction, hobbies and familial support. Everyone clapped politely at the end and the majority of the crowd dispersed within minutes. So far, so good.

A couple of the women, one of the men who had been talking about football, the nervous-looking couple and Grantaire remained behind as even Éponine stood, ready to follow the stragglers from the room. The polystyrene cracked in her hands as she fiddled with the cup uncertainly. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” She asked.

“Well… I’m here now. If I don’t do it now, will I ever?” Grantaire reasoned aloud.

“Well… are you comfortable with me going then?” Éponine asked, meeting his eye and holding his gaze steadily, looking for signs of doubt or discomfort in her friend’s expressive face.

“I… I suppose so. You can hardly stay,” he murmured.

“I guess not, no.”

“Okay. Well, uh, I’ll see you in a minute?” Grantaire asked hopefully.

“Of course,” Éponine said. “There’s a Tesco Express on the corner near here so I’m gonna go nab some bits for dinner and then I’ll meet you outside.”

Grantaire arched an eyebrow questioningly.

“No, not _actually_ nab. Buy. I’m going to _buy_ some bits for dinner.”

“Make sure you do. I have a couple quid back at home so I can pay you back.”

Éponine narrowed her eyes.

Grantaire sighed, looking ashamed. “I had a small beer fund. I kept it to myself, and I know that I shouldn’t have – I just… Look, since it’s not going on _beer_ anymore and I’m trying to stop being such a selfish prick, keeping money back to spend on booze-” He spat the last word.

“You’re not a selfish prick, R-”

“Either way,” Grantaire cut her off self-deprecatingly, “I’d be happier if I could pull my weight somewhat, so please let me pay for these groceries. I’ve not worked in months; it’s only you that has kept us in the flat and with food to eat.”

Éponine sighed. It was hard to argue when Grantaire was only speaking the truth. “Fine. But I know you would have always done the same for me.”

Grantaire nodded guiltily. “Go then. Get something nice since I’m paying. I’ll see you later.”

Éponine smiled weakly, crushing the disposable cup and tossing it in the bin as she left. She looked back at Grantaire with a last hopeful smile as the door swung shut behind her, leaving Grantaire with a weight in his stomach and a rising feeling of panic and nausea.

In an attempt to distract himself, he fished his phone from his jeans pocket. He’d left it on silent as to not disturb the meeting, and seemed to have missed some messages from his friends.

**(Dr) Joly (18:34) : Ep tells me you are going to the meeting tonight. Good luck and if you need anything, let me know. I’ll tell the others you guys won’t be making it to the les amis meeting, but obvs I won’t say why. See you later! J**

Grantaire smiled at his phone. Joly, for all his nervousness, was so sweet and well… jolly. It was nice of him to check up on Grantaire, especially considering his own rather uncooperative and apathetic stance towards recovery up until now. Grantaire made a note to hang out with Bossuet and Joly again soon, since he’d vastly enjoyed their company the last time. He scrolled to the next message in his inbox.

**Combeferre (19:47) : Éponine isn’t answering her phone and Joly says neither of you will be at the meeting. Is everything okay?**

As well as being mildly touched that Combeferre had thought to see how he was (he was sure he was demanding daily updates from Éponine in an attempt not to be too pushy to Grantaire himself… _and probably as an excuse to talk to Éponine_ ) it was fairly obviously an afterthought, after being unable to speak to Éponine herself. Grantaire chuckled to himself. _And the others thought **him** unsubtle?_

It was the last text that made his breath catch. _Enjolras._

**Apollo (20:03) : I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night. Nothing could be further from my intention. Joly won’t explain why you and Éponine aren’t here, but I sincerely apologise if it was because of me.**

_Oh fuck. For a moment, he’d all but forgotten._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, any mistakes, inaccuracies or offensive or merely wrong portrayals of anything please let me know so I can correct it right away. 
> 
> Additionally, I'd be thrilled to take prompts [here](http://grantairecared.tumblr.com/ask) as I really want to get back into writing over the summer. Like, any Les Mis pairing is okay but preferably not nsfw or toooo gory, please. I'd be so so happy if anyone were to do this.


End file.
